Burials -- Unearthed
by Cinis
Summary: Katarina delivers the body and Riven buries it. Katarina/Riven
1. Burials: Chapter 1

A/N: Thank you to my beta readers, Joe and Balabalabagan.

10-24-14 Lore/Canon compliance note: This first chapter makes more sense if you're familiar with Sion's old lore or the old Katarina lore. Generally, I have made a great effort to be canon compliant, right down to checking the geography of Valoran, however, the massive lore shift happened while this fic was in progress. I have made edits to bring the fic in line with the lore that the League of Legends never existed. However, I've made too much of an investment in the old lores to deviate and follow the new stuff, especially as Cassiopeia's lore has changed, as has Sion's. So for future readers, please understand that this fic was begun when the old lore was still canon and will, for the most part, continue using that lore.

Acknowledgements: The cover art for this fic was created by TheGadgetFish (lineart) and Kalce (colors). They are both awesome and those are their tumblr names so you should check them out - the full art version is also on tumblr and it looks much better than the compressed thumbnail here. TheGadgetFish was kind enough to draw it for me after I asked and, generally, TheGadgetFish is responsible for getting me to write this fic because she introduced me to the Kat/Riven pairing. I also want to thank LogosMinusPity (whose works can be found at AO3 and on tumblr) because reading her understanding of these characters inspired me and gave me the groundwork upon which to build this fic. So thank you to all of those people and to everyone reading!

And, of course, League of Legends belongs to Riot Games.

* * *

Burials

* * *

It was pouring when Katarina finally guided the creaking ox cart through the pine gates of the outpost and onto the soggy parade ground.

Behind her, covered by a dark canvas tarp, the body stank of overripe fruit and putrefaction. Not even the rain could suppress the stench. It rose up from beneath its cover and coated everything it touched before seeping in – her clothes, her skin, her hair, her face.

Katarina slid down from the driver's bench. Her leather boots made a sick squelching noise as they landed in the mud. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a white-haired soldier approaching through the summer deluge. Not sparing him a second glance, she tossed the cattle prod in his direction and began to scan the nearby buildings for the command post.

The sooner she reported in and handed over the remains, the sooner she could bathe.

Behind her, the tarp rustled as the soldier pulled it back.

The stench of decay rolled out over the field and hit Katarina's nose with an almost physical force. She snarled and turned half-around to glare at the soldier.

The soldier glanced up for a moment and met her gaze with unreadable red eyes, then looked back down at the body.

Katarina cursed and then turned around again to resume her search.

Squinting through the torrential rain, her eyes passed over building after building – an infirmary, a barracks, a storehouse another barracks – all built out of green wood with cracks between the fresh hewn logs of the walls and sagging roofs. The command post, nestled in a corner of the camp, was no different from the other shacks built in the swamp. The only thing that differentiated it was its small size and the crudely painted Noxian emblem above the open doorway.

Wasting no more time, Katarina set off towards it, holding a hand up above her face to ward off some of the downpour.

When she arrived, she didn't bother to knock or otherwise announce her presence before she walked in.

The single room of the post was deserted.

Habitually, she scanned the area for entrances, exits, threats. It was woefully bare of all those things.

In the center of the windowless room, was a single, empty, desk made of the same fresh pine as the rest of the camp, and a single stool to go with the desk. Lying on the wood floor against the far wall was a standard issue bedroll and next to that, a heavy soldier's knapsack. A neatly cleaned set of infantryman's half-plate armor hung on a rack in the corner.

Beside the armor stood the only thing in the room really worth remembering. A massive steel broadsword – as tall as Katarina and almost as wide – leaned against the pine wall with its tip pointing down, digging up splinters from the wood floor.

The redhead's eyes widened ever so slightly when she saw it there, towering over everything around it.

Of course she'd seen weapons of a similar size before. She'd seen them hanging on walls and sitting in display cases and occasionally being wielded with two hands by massive men in exhibition drills during festivals. She'd never seen one in the field before.

Frowning slightly, Katarina searched through her memory for the words of the droning, dusty tutor she'd shared with her sister as a child.

Retired. The Noxian zweihander was retired over fifty years prior when battlefield tactics changed to favor lighter, faster soldiers. The zweihander had been deemed too slow, too inefficient to be of use any longer. It hadn't been a change of any note since the army had never had more than a company's worth of men able to use the massive swords in live combat.

Driven by curiosity, Katarina approached the sword and wrapped both hands around the hilt, giving it an experimental tug.

It didn't budge.

Again, she pulled on it, this time using all her strength.

The sword rose half an inch from the floor before she dropped it back down.

With a new degree of respect for, and a certain amount of interest in, the outpost's commander, Katarina sat down on his stool to wait.

She spent half an hour there, imagining warm baths, cleaning her fingernails with one of her knives, and listening to the rain before anyone else entered the small room.

Katarina looked up to find the white-haired soldier from before standing in the doorway and dripping rainwater all over the floorboards.

"Where's your commander?" Katarina demanded. "I don't like being kept waiting."

"Here," said the soldier. His – no, definitely her – her voice was soft and tired sounding. "I am the officer in command."

Katarina raised an eyebrow and pointedly looked at the sword against the wall and then back to the soldier. The white-haired woman was slightly shorter than Katarina and even though she had the muscular build that all infantrymen ended up with eventually, she looked nothing like the towering mountain of a man Katarina had imagined wielding the weapon.

"Yes it's mine," said the soldier. There was an edge of annoyance in her tone.

The words were out of Katarina's mouth before she remembered all she wanted to do was hand over her cargo, bathe, and then requisition a bed. "Prove it."

The soldier brushed past Katarina sitting on the stool and headed to the massive sword. With one hand, she grasped the hilt, lifted the blade up, and leveled it at Katarina's face. Her voice betrayed no strain, "I am Riven, acting commander of this outpost following the death of our captain. We have received his body and will give it a proper burial. You may leave."

Refusing to be intimidated, or shocked, by the display of strength and the challenge inherent in the soldier's pose, Katarina sat unflinching on the stool. Instead of looking at the point of the sword as it hovered a few inches from her nose, she locked eyes with the soldier and let a lazy grin spread over her features. "Du Couteau," she said. "Katarina Du Couteau. I'm staying here until I receive new orders." She leaned in slightly and reached out to tap a finger against the flat of the blade. "Not that I mind. It's not every day you see one of these."

Saying nothing, Riven set her sword back against the wall, digging up new splinters in the rough floorboards. She turned and moved for the door.

Still sitting on the stool, Katarina watched her go before getting up and heading to the nearest barracks to find the quartermaster.

The quartermaster was wiry bald man without facial hair and with a lean face, making him resemble some sort of underground rat-like creature. He was able to point Katarina to an empty berth but as for soap and water, he just laughed and said, "It's always raining."

Eventually she found a secluded spot a short distance from the camp and took advantage of the downpour to scrape as much of the filth of the road from her skin and her leathers. She didn't feel clean exactly, but it was a definite improvement over her state upon arriving.

That evening, the mess hall of the camp was the quietest mess hall Katarina had ever dined in. There was none of the usual hum of conversation between squadmates. Only the quiet clunking of wooden spoons against the edges of wooden bowls filled the somber room.

The unnatural quiet set Katarina on edge. The men around her should be talking, laughing, fighting, not… whatever it was they were doing. Acting like someone had died.

She was so uneasy that when someone laid a hand on her shoulder, she instinctively pulled the knife from her left arm sheathe and went for the throat instead of the wrist. The steel was arcing faster than the eye could follow when it stopped abruptly, still inches from its target.

The soldier from before, Riven, had caught the blow in a textbook block, slamming her forearm into Katarina's and knocking the weapon aside. The counterstrike came a heartbeat later – a punch that crunched into Katarina's chin and knocked her to the floor.

Even as she was falling, Katarina reached for another knife and hurled it half-blind – it whizzed through the air and missed removing Riven's ear by less than an inch before embedding itself in the far wall.

The already quiet mess hall went silent.

Katarina picked herself up and wiped thick blood and saliva off her lips with the back of one hand. With her other hand, she reached for the blade she'd dropped in her fall.

Riven took a step back and held up empty hands in a pacifying gesture. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Katarina checked the set of her jaw before spitting more blood onto the pine floorboards. Considering how strong she knew Riven was, the punch had to have been pulled since nothing was broken. That irked her even more than the fact the blow had connected. She tightened her hand on the hilt of her blade. "What do you want?"

"I need a favor," Riven said.

Finger by finger, Katarina relaxed her grip on her knife. Could she beat Riven in a fight, she wondered. If she had her knives and Riven had that hulking sword? A rush of adrenaline shot through her, though she did her best to ignore it. "What sort of favor?" she asked.

Riven glanced around at the company in the mess hall, all faces turned towards her, and the slightest of frowns tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Can you come back to the post with me?"

Still aware of the audience and the embarrassing bruise spreading across her face, Katarina sheathed her knife and nodded, saying nothing.

Riven turned her back on the redhead and headed for the door to the mess hall. She picked up a small glass lantern she'd left on the floor when she'd entered. "Come on."

The rain had finally abated, but that didn't mean the world was any dryer. If anything, the weather had gone from bad to miserable. The warm air, heavy with humidity was thick and cloying and walking through it conjured up memories of swimming.

The two women crossed the waterlogged parade ground to the dark command post. Riven set her lamp down on the simple desk, right next to what was clearly a satchel of orders from command. "I can't read them," she said.

"You can't read?" Katarina asked as she reached for the oiled leather bag. She hadn't been sure what she'd been expecting exactly, aside from that it wasn't this. There was only one piece of parchment and she laid it out on the desk next to the light. Someone had already broken the red wax seal. The writing was in black ink and the penmanship of the flowing Noxian cursive was impeccable.

"I can read a little. Not that," Riven said.

Katarina glanced up. "But you're an officer."

Riven shrugged. "Our captain couldn't read much either," she said. "Between the two of us we could normally figure out orders if we stayed up late and worked at it…" She paused and for the first time, Katarina saw her hesitate. "But this isn't normal writing. The letters don't look the same."

Katarina tapped the parchment. "It's cursive," she said. "It makes it easier and faster to write with a quill or pen."

Again, Riven shrugged. "What does it say?"

Katarina looked back down to the orders. She read them twice to make sure she understood, then said, "This is directly from High Command. I'm to take the body back to the forward base four days march from here and give it to the necromancers," she said. "And you've been promoted – captain. Congratulations."

"What?" Riven grabbed the parchment and squinted at it in the dim light of her lamp, as if by sheer force of will she could make herself understand the letters that seemed to run together and move across the page. "But we've already buried him," she said.

"Better get digging then," replied Katarina.

"We've already buried him," Riven repeated.

"If that's all you needed, I've had a long day and want to sleep," Katarina said. She stretched and faked a yawn.

Still staring at the orders, Riven nodded. "Dismissed," she mumbled.

Katarina left the command post in a strange mood. By no means did she look forward to spending another half a week dragging the decaying corpse back to the forward base. But this time she was moving it with a real purpose. The necromancers were going to resurrect him to fight for Noxus and that – that would be something to behold.

The barracks she was spending the night in was near to deserted when she entered. What few men were there were either already sleeping or settling down for sleep.

There were many empty mats – many more than she'd seen faces in the mess hall.

Casualties of war.

Her bedroll smelled like old sweat and dirt. She didn't bother undressing or pulling the cover over her, preferring to just lie on top of it. Katarina's knives dug uncomfortably into her sides, but she kept them on. She never slept without them near and she didn't trust her surroundings enough to unbuckle the sheathes. The entire arrangement was far from perfect, but it was a vast improvement to the bench of the cart.

Sleep did not come easily.

The air was too hot and sticky. The snores of the soldiers were too loud. The stink of unwashed bodies was too overpowering.

After over an hour of fruitlessly chasing rest, Katarina got up and headed for the door of the barracks. Silent, she slipped out into the night.

The first thing she noticed about the camp was how loud it was – louder than even the snores inside the building. The noises of wetland creatures buzzing and chucking and screaming out to each other was deafening. The second thing she noticed was how bright it was. With the rain gone, the sky was clear and full of shining stars, which were in turn were outshone by a silvery full moon.

Not content to merely stand outside the barracks, Katarina set off at a slow walk to make a circuit of the camp inside its palisade walls. The few watchmen perched on platforms along the barricade paid her little attention, their senses focused on what lay beyond the outpost.

Once, she reached out and touched one of the timbers of the wall. Her fingers came away sticky with sap. The camp had stood for no more than a month and would probably continue to stand for no longer than another month before Noxus abandoned it to the swamp. The front lines of the war were constantly shifting. It didn't pay to build for permanence.

She'd almost finished a complete loop around the buildings when she saw a figure sitting on the ground ahead. Given how bright the night was, it wasn't difficult to identify the figure as Riven. The woman had her arms wrapped around her knees, which she'd pulled up to her chest so she could rest her chin on them.

As she approached, Katarina raised a hand to momentarily brush across the dark bruise that had bloomed across her jaw. Internally, she winced as her every footfall squelched in the mud. She was trained to move silently, but there was only so much you could do in a marsh.

Riven turned her head to see who it was, then turned back to whatever she'd been staring at.

When Katarina stood directly behind her, she could see that it was a freshly dug grave. Lying next to the soldier was a shovel.

"Why don't you just order someone else to do it?" Katarina asked.

Riven didn't look up at her. "We buried him together," she said. "But I am the commander. I have to dig him out alone."

"Hm," said Katarina. "He was that important to you?"

Riven said nothing.

Growing bored of the sounds of swamp creatures, Katarina turned and went back to her barracks, leaving Riven alone.

This time when she lay down in the dirty bed, sleep found her instantly.

The next morning, the ox cart was waiting for her on the parade ground. A long pine box, covered in mud, had been loaded already. Riven stood holding the cattle prod. At Katarina's approach, the soldier handed it over. "Travel safe," she said.

Katarina pulled herself up onto the driver's bench. "Glad to see you care," she said.

"He meant a lot to us," Riven replied.

Katarina looked back at Riven. "If you're ever in the city, come to the Du Couteau estate and say that I sent you," she said. "Someone there will teach you to read and write."

Riven nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."

"It's an embarrassment that an officer can't read," Katarina said.

Riven's lips pressed into a thin line. "Strength is all that matters," she said.

Katarina jerked a thumb to indicate the pine box. "He was strong." She turned back to face ahead and smacked the ox, driving it to motion.

Riven watched the body leave the camp and then turned back to her post.


	2. Burials: Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you to my beta readers, Deixis and Balabalabagan. Also, thank you to the reviewers, and the people who popped this onto their favs or follows lists - I very much hope you enjoy this second chapter.

* * *

Katarina stood alone in the practice room of the Du Couteau manor. Bright hextech lanterns ringed the basement walls and lit the stone chamber with a harsh blue-white light that leached the color out of everything it touched. The lamps emitted a low buzzing noise that could drive Katarina crazy if she paid too much attention to it.

In a far corner stood a set of well-used practice dummies and at their feet lay a stack of paper targets and pins. For a fighter as skilled as Katarina, the goal wasn't merely to land a blade on the painted burlap that marked the dummy's heart, but to land a blade on a chosen target while running, jumping, rolling, or even sparring with an opponent. Even with the added challenges, those drills were child's play and the dummies weren't the reason she'd descended to the basement of the family estate.

No, the reason she'd come was sitting on an iron rack against the far wall of the room.

Over the years, the Du Couteau family, in its service to Noxus, had amassed a collection of weapons that spanned every type used by the Noxian army, by the Demacian army, and even a few specimens from places like the Shurima desert and Ionia. The less exotic, more practical, weapons lived in the training room.

Katarina's leather boots made no noise as she crossed the floor to the back of the chamber and came to a stop in front of one of the racks. The blade she'd come for wasn't hard to find – among swords, a Demacian greatsword was smaller only than the Noxian zweihander. The Demacian weapon was narrower and shorter than its cousin and lacked the axe-like cutting edge, instead narrowing down to a single point for stabbing between plates of armor.

Katarina suppressed a snort. Of course the Demacian version of a weapon was smaller and less powerful.

But that didn't mean it was any less effective.

Slowly, Katarina drew the greatsword from its place on the rack and walked with it to the center of the room. It was a plain weapon, consisting of nothing more than a steel blade, a set of parrying hooks above the dull ricasso, a steel guard, and a leather wrapped hilt above an undecorated pommel weight. There were many nicks in the edge of the weapon and one of the quillions was dented. No doubt however many years ago it had been taken off a battlefield from the clutches of a dead foot soldier.

Even using both hands and standing with her feet planted, Katarina could feel the weight of the sword threatening to pull her down and topple her over. She wasn't a swordsman and she didn't have the sheer brute force required to wield such a weapon. Nevertheless, Katarina raised the blade above her head and brought it down in a slow, controlled, diagonal cut, then swept it around to swing horizontally before her.

The best way to defeat an opponent was to understand how they fought.

Again, Katarina brought the blade up and back down, this time quicker but no less controlled.

Then again. And again. And again.

By the time she heard someone clearing their throat behind her, Katarina was covered in sweat and breathing heavily. Without acknowledging her visitor, she straightened and walked the giant sword back to its place on the rack. The only two people who would slip into the Du Couteau training room undetected were her father and Talon – and her father wouldn't bother clearing his throat to get her attention. When she was sure she'd stowed the blade properly, Katarina turned to face the man leaning casually against the doorframe. "What is it?"

Talon, dressed in his customary purples, took a step into the room and looked around casually before answering, "You've got a guest." He began to walk over to where she stood.

Katarina crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow – the one she could still move, the one that hadn't been bisected by Demacian steel. "Everyone knows I don't take guests," she said. "Why haven't they been sent away?"

"This one isn't like the rest," Talon replied. He came to a stop a few feet away from Katarina and a bit to the side. He didn't look at her, he looked slightly past her to the greatsword in its place.

"Oh?" Katarina asked.

Talon nodded. "You should probably go save her from your sister," he said.

Katarina frowned as she wiped away a thick layer of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. So she had a mystery guest and it was a woman. Was it someone she knew? Did she know any women worth entertaining? "I suppose I should," Katarina said. She started for the door.

When she'd almost left the room, Talon called out, "Kat, if you ever need someone to practice against, I-

"I know," Katarina cut in. She took another few steps, then paused. "Thank you."

Talon was no better with long swords than she was. If they ever sparred, they'd both be lucky to come out of the experience un-maimed.

The primary stairway up from the Du Couteau basement was a narrow, winding, treacherous mess of steep stone stairs that had been worn down in the center until an unwary foot might slide off and send its owner tumbling down to break their neck - if they didn't crash into a lit torch first. It was a relic of a bygone era and even though Katarina was confident she could sprint up and down it – she had in the past – she disliked it and took the wooden servant's stair, with its reasonably spaced steps and modern lighting, whenever possible.

This time though, since the stone stairs were closer to the sitting room, she dealt with them. By the time she'd made it up the thirty-two steps, the torches had left her smelling of soot in addition to the sweat from her drills. She knew that when Cassiopeia saw her, she was going to get an earful about tracking dirt around the manor.

But Katarina knew the house had seen worse. Much worse.

When Katarina arrived at the great oak double doors of the Du Couteau sitting room, she paused for a moment before opening them. She didn't know who'd come to see her, nor did she know what her sister's scheming had already wrought. But whatever was on the other side of the doors, she refused to be surprised.

Like every set of doors in the house, these doors opened silently on well-oiled hinges – so silently that the room's occupants seemed not to notice Katarina's entrance.

Perched on the edge of an armchair with her back to Katarina was the white-haired soldier with the giant sword from seven months ago in the swamp. What was her name? Regan? Raven? No, nothing so common… Riven.

Instead of civilian clothes, the soldier wore the long-sleeved standard issue uniform of an infantry captain. Though it had once been black with red accents, hers had faded to a dull grey. No doubt she was on leave for the winter truce – it didn't happen every year, but most years Noxus and Demacia paused their war and recalled their men from the swamps. History had taught the generals that during the harsh winters they'd lose more men to hypothermia and pneumonia than to magefire and steel.

Even though Katarina couldn't see Riven's face, she could tell from the tense lines in her shoulders that the soldier was agitated.

The source of Riven's discomfort was lounging across from her, artfully draped over a plush crimson couch. Cassiopeia's hazel eyes flicked up to acknowledge her sister's entrance, then dropped back down to focus on their guest. "So you've never been this high in the city before?" the younger Du Couteau asked with a tone of genuine curiosity – though the very fact that her voice sounded so genuine suggested it was nothing of the sort. She adjusted her legs and her green dress up a half inch.

Riven's already tight shoulders stiffened even more. "No ma'am."

"Cassiopeia, why don't you leave our guest alone," Katarina said. She refrained from sighing or otherwise expressing her mild annoyance at her sister's typical antics.

Riven twisted around in her seat to glance over at Katarina. Something that may have been gratitude shone in her red eyes and she relaxed ever so slightly.

Cassiopeia gracefully picked herself up off the couch. She picked at her dress, smoothing out some imagined wrinkle that ran down her side from just below her breast to her hip. "I was only trying to get to know Riven," she said. "It's so rare that you have friends… visit."

Katarina brushed past her sister, ignoring the way Cassiopeia pointedly sniffed the air as she passed, and sat down where the younger Du Couteau had been lying moments ago. "Leave," she said.

"I can see I'm not needed here," Cassiopeia said. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Riven. I do hope you'll come again."

Katarina waited for her sister to glide out of the room and close the doors behind her before she spoke again. "You're here about my offer." She kept her voice neutral, betraying none of her astonishment that Riven had actually taken her passing remarks to heart and come to the estate. Her words in the swamp had been impulsive and at the time she'd had no real plans to follow through on them. She hadn't expected she'd need to. But faced with Riven in her sitting room, she wasn't going to just swallow her pride and rescind the offer.

Riven nodded once.

Katarina's lips twisted into a smirk. "You admit I was right." She leaned back into the couch and crossed her arms over her chest.

Riven glanced at the floor for a brief moment before pulling her red eyes up to meet Katarina's green ones. "I can barely read our orders. No one in my company can help."

Katarina said nothing, just continued to smirk.

Riven hesitated, but didn't break eye contact. Haltingly, she spoke, "You were right." She paused again and grimaced. One of her feet tapped once against the floor. "Will you help me?"

Idly, Katarina reached over and began to run a hand over the hilt of one of her knives. They'd arrived at the part of the conversation where she could negotiate, could ask for something in return. She broke their staring contest and let her eyes wander over Riven's body.

In the past, judging from personal experience, Katarina had always assumed the Noxian infantry's parade uniform had not been designed with women in mind. Sitting across from her, Riven challenged that assumption and then smashed it to bits. While Katarina lacked the bulk to properly fill the button down top, Riven's muscular shoulders were ever so slightly too big for the shirt. Aside from that, the uniform fit her perfectly. Though the faded grey fabric hid her body, the lines of her shirt still emphasized the form underneath like it had been tailored for her.

What little darkly tanned skin that the uniform didn't cover reiterated the woman's strength. Riven's jawline was hard and her hands were calloused - even on leave she was still training every day. A deep scar marred one of her cheeks – a scar Katarina didn't remember being there before, though truth be told she hadn't been paying much attention to the soldier's appearance seven months ago.

Katarina dragged her eyes back up to meet Riven's once more.

The chances that the soldier had anything at all that Katarina would want were slim to none. She didn't even have a last name. But Riven was strong beyond belief, everything about her screamed it, and, maybe someday, she might matter.

Slowly, enunciating every word, Katarina replied, "You'll owe me… a favor."

Riven swallowed hard and shifted around in her chair. She was no less tense than when Katarina had entered the room – more so, even. "Fine," she said. There was an edge of something, perhaps anger, in her tone.

Katarina ignored it and stood. She beckoned Riven to do the same. "Come with me."

Together, with Katarina leading and Riven following a few steps behind, they left the sitting room and entered the labyrinth of hallways and rooms that was the Du Couteau manor. The building was from a different time, a time when being nobility had meant quite a lot more, and was designed to confuse both would-be assassins and guests. The result was three and a half floors plus a basement and at least nine staircases, none of which ran from the ground floor all the way to the top. There was no way to start at one end of the second floor and reach the other end without either changing floors and using a different staircase or making use of a secret passage hidden in the back of an ornamental fireplace.

It took them nearly ten minutes to traverse the house and reach Katarina's chambers on the third floor.

Every step of the way, Riven's head swiveled back and forth as she took in the carpets, the tapestries, the paintings and statues, the gilt on the doorknobs.

When Riven slowed her step to stare at a particularly ornate Ionian dao hanging on a wall, Katarina remarked, "If you find this impressive, clearly you've yet to see High Command."

"High Command looks like this?" Riven asked.

"Less silver and more gold," Katarina replied.

When they reached Katarina's door, she unlocked it and pushed it open, revealing the chamber beyond. Though she rarely used it for anything, it was adequately furnished as a sitting room with a few couches, chairs, and tables. The far wall was almost entirely windows, and the place would have been flooded in natural light if Katarina ever opened the drapes. Other doors lead to her study, her bedroom, her private training room, and a storage room she only went into once in a blue moon.

"Sit," Katarina ordered. She didn't bother looking to see if Riven obeyed as she headed for her study to retrieve a stack of blank paper and a few pens. When she returned, Riven was still standing by the door. "Sit down," she repeated, slightly annoyed.

Riven shifted her weight from foot to foot. "Where?"

"Anywhere," Katarina said. She looked around at her room and then revised, "There." She pointed to a couch with a coffee table in front of it and another couch on the other side of the table. It would be as good a place as any.

Riven walked over to the couch and sat down as if she thought it would break if she put her full weight on it.

Katarina set the paper and pens down on the glass tabletop. She pushed one sheet and one pen over to the soldier as she sat down across from her. "Write your alphabet."

Watching Riven write was a test of patience. It took a conscious exercise of self-control for Katarina to refrain from tapping her foot against the floor or drumming her fingers along one of her knives. When the soldier finally finished, Katarina took the paper and frowned.

Riven's handwriting, just writing the alphabet, was terrible. Some of the letters were backwards. And… "You're missing four letters," Katarina said. She picked up another pen and wrote out the complete Noxian alphabet in a fraction of the time it had taken Riven, then pointed to each of Riven's four missing letters and made their sounds. "Now copy that," she ordered.

Riven picked up her pen once more and started the alphabet from the beginning. She didn't manage to write any faster. When she finally finished all thirty letters of the Noxian alphabet, Katarina glanced at the paper and said, "Again, this time without looking."

The alphabet Riven produced was, once again, missing four letters.

"I-I can't remember them yet," Riven muttered.

"Then look at mine and do it again."

As Katarina watched Riven chew at her lip in frustration as the soldier copied the letters again and again and again, the redhead questioned her own sanity. She could read and write Noxian, Demacian, could read Piltover's glyphs well enough to understand their manuals and operate their tech, could even decipher some of the runes the tribes of the Freljord used. She didn't know the first thing about teaching any of that to another person.

So why was she sitting in her room watching a scruffy soldier from the Demacian campaigns scratch out terribly formed letters? She could be downstairs still, practicing for the next time she fought the Dauntless Vanguard. She could be sitting in the library studying maps or reading a book on tactics. She could be taking a nap. But instead she was in her room, watching Riven – and she couldn't quite figure out why.

Katarina shifted on the couch to make herself more comfortable. It seemed she would be there for a while. If – no, when this took more than an afternoon, she was going to need to find something else to do to keep herself busy. Perhaps she could sharpen knives.

Riven looked up. "I'm sorry," the soldier said. "I'm trying, but this is hard."

"So try harder," Katarina said.

Riven nodded and then bent her head back down over her work.

At the very least, Katarina decided, she could consider about what she was going to ask from Riven in return for her help. Even if Riven had money, the Du Couteau family had more than Katarina could spend in her entire lifetime, more than her father could spend, almost as much as her sister could spend. And there was a thought. Katarina knew what her sister would do in her situation, but the idea left a bad taste in her mouth and insulted her pride. So what would Katarina do?

Before her, Riven doggedly kept at her letters. She wrote them over and over again, pausing only occasionally to shake out her hand. She'd pushed back the long sleeves of her uniform and the corded muscles in her arm stood out, straining, from how hard she was clutching her pen.

"It's easier if you relax," Katarina remarked.

Riven said nothing, but she did loosen her grip. Her writing speed improved, though not by much.

When what little sunlight that peeked around Katarina's heavy curtains turned to red and then faded away, Katarina stood up and plucked the pen out of Riven's hand. "We're done for today," she said. "Go home."

Riven stood slowly. "How do I leave?"

Cleaning up the pens and ink-soaked papers, Katarina paused. She had guests so rarely she'd forgotten how confusing the house was to strangers. "I'll show you out in a minute," she said.

True to her word, when she'd put everything away, Katarina guided Riven back through the halls and down two different staircases towards the front door. Neither of them said a word.

As Riven was walking down the stone steps of the mansion, Katarina called out, "Tomorrow, bring your sword."

Riven turned and looked up at the redhead, a question in her red eyes.

"I told you you'd owe me," Katarina said. "I decided what I want."

Riven blinked. She stared at Katarina for a moment, then nodded and then turned back around to continue her descent down the stairs.

Katarina pulled the front door shut.

* * *

A/N: A note on sword terminology: I am aware that the description I gave here of a Demacian greatsword is basically the normal description you'd see of a German or Swiss Renaissance zweihander/bidenhander/dopelhander though in the last chapter I labeled Riven's sword as a zweihander. Riven's reforged sword in her splash (which I'd imagine would be similar to other Noxian two handed swords in design) is a very, very stylized fantasy weapon and there's no good word for it. I ended up labeling it a zweihander because that word starts with a "z" which seemed like a Noxian letter, and it's just got that German feel that, as a native American English speaker, I felt was fitting for Noxus. "Bidenhander" and "dopelhander" both start with plosives, which seemed Demacian to me, but I went with "greatsword" to avoid that Germanic vibe.


	3. Burials: Chapter 3

A/N: As always, thank you to my beta readers Deixis and Balabalabagan. FYI they are both also posting League fanfic this morning as well and they are very good at writing. Deixis is writing "Whirling Dervish" and Balabalabagan has "In Pursuit of Truth."

And, of course, thank you to everyone who's reading this fic and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

I've included short descriptions of the few armor terms that I use in this chapter in the author's note at the bottom if you're unfamiliar with plate armor (which is to say, I've wikipedia'd this thoroughly). I did try to avoid gumming things up with too many technical terms though.

* * *

Wearing her leathers, Katarina paced the entrance hall of the Du Couteau manor. She knew it wouldn't make time pass any faster, but trying to wear a rut into the black marble floor of the room at least gave her something to do.

Ten steps forward. Turn. Ten steps back. Turn.

She glanced at the antique grandfather clock that stood against one wall of the long room. It was a little past midday. Outside, the sun would be high over the mountain city of Noxus. This was the time when Riven had arrived yesterday – or it was to the best of her memory. If Riven was the soldier Katarina thought she was, she'd come to the door any minute now.

Ten steps forward. Turn. Ten steps back. Turn.

"Impatient, aren't you."

Katarina paused her pacing and looked up toward the voice. It was Cassiopeia, standing atop the grand staircase at the far end of the room. The redhead crossed her arms and glared up at her sister. She bore no malice towards Cassiopeia, quite the opposite actually, but the younger woman had a true talent for nosing her way into her sister's business at the most inconvenient times in the most obnoxious ways. "Do you want something?" Katarina demanded.

Cassiopeia walked a little ways so that she could lean against the rail of the stairway. "Don't mind me," she said. "I'm just watching."

"Go watch Talon," Katarina said. "I'm busy."

Cassiopeia wrinkled her nose slightly in disdain. As with everything else she did, it was a practiced motion that didn't actually mar her beauty in any way. "Talon bores me," she replied. "You're much more interesting right now."

Katarina opened her mouth, but before she could say anything there was a sharp knock from the entrance. Katarina shot one last glare at her sister, warning Cassiopeia to just stay where she was, to say nothing, to stay out of the way, before she turned to stalk over to the front door and opened it.

On the Du Couteau's doorstep stood Riven. This day, instead of a dress uniform, the soldier wore the leather boots, the loose brown trousers, and the short belted tunic of the rank-and-file infantry. Around her hands, wrists, and forearms were white bandages of the sort boxers used as hand wraps. At her side, she carried a bulky wooden armorer's chest. In her other hand, braced against her shoulder, was the same enormous zweihander she'd had in the swamp.

"Riven," Katarina greeted. The redhead stepped aside, allowing the soldier to pass into the house. Given the extravagantly large doorframe, the white-haired woman didn't have to duck to avoid scraping her sword on the lintel, but for any normal door she would have.

Upon entering, Riven blinked several times as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer indoor lighting, then looked around the hall. Her eyes briefly settled on Cassiopeia at the top of the stairs but then moved on. When she'd finished scanning the hall, she turned towards Katarina and nodded. Her gaze was steady, unsurprised, as if she'd expected Katarina to be lurking on the other side of the door, waiting to open it. "Lady Du Couteau."

The archaic formal address sat uneasily with Katarina, but she didn't correct Riven. If the soldier knew her place and acknowledged it, then so be it. Katarina pushed the front door shut and gestured for Riven to follow as she started to walk to the hall that lead to the stairs down to the basement. "Come with me."

Riven followed wordlessly.

When she was about to leave the hall, Katarina glanced up to look for her sister, who had remained uncharacteristically silent.

The younger woman was still there, still leaning on the railing, still watching. A smile, calculated – just like every other facial expression she'd had during her entire adult life - played on her lips.

Katarina narrowed her eyes, just to let Cassiopeia know her displeasure, then turned into the corridor and out of the entrance hall. At a brisk pace, she led them to the servant's stair as she doubted Riven would fit down the formal staircase with her giant sword and armor chest the size of a large child. The wooden steps creaked and groaned under the soldier's weight. From the servant's stair to the practice room was a mercifully short walk. With every step, Katarina felt her heartbeat quicken with anticipation.

When they entered the practice room, the chamber was pitch black. Knowing exactly where on the wall to reach, Katarina flicked the light switch. Riven set her armorer's chest down on the stone floor and her sword up against the wall as the blue-white hextech lamps all around the walls burst into life with a soft whoosh. With the lights came the insistent buzzing that Piltover's brightest bulbs always produced. Behind Katarina, Riven hissed. The redhead turned and tilted her head to the side.

Riven waved to indicate the lights. Restlessly, she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

Katarina shrugged. She walked out to the center of the room and rolled her shoulders several times, stretching, then drew the two blades she kept holstered on her back. Curved steel, they weren't quite long enough to be called swords, but they were also too long to be knives. She spun them in her hands, once, twice, then stopped. "I'm ready when you are."

She heard the barely restrained excitement in her voice, but she didn't care if Riven knew she was impatient. Maybe it would make the soldier prepare faster. Then they would fight sooner and then Katarina would know for certain how strong the soldier was, and how strong she herself was in comparison. She'd know where they stood. She'd know Riven. And there would be blood.

If the coming fight had once been about training, those thoughts had been abandoned some time ago.

Riven didn't reply. The soldier was pulling on a long-sleeved padded shirt. Over that went a dark steel cuirass with faulds, then spaulders, then gloves, then vambraces. The glove of her left hand had steel plates fixed all along the backs of the fingers and across the palm as well. Over her boots, she slipped steel greaves. She managed to get the entire ensemble on and secured quickly, fastening leather straps and steel buckles with a practiced ease.

Katarina watched the soldier's every motion intently. Noxian infantry plate was heavy and limited movement slightly, but it traded mobility for strength. If one of her blades hit Riven's armor, the weapon would just skid off, no matter how much force she put into it. That said, infantry plate purposefully left the soldier's entire back exposed. A Noxian did not retreat. If Katarina could maneuver behind Riven, Katarina would win.

When Riven had finished checking the fit of her armor, she reached into her chest and pulled out a visorless helm. It was one of the newer Noxian designs and resembled the kind of helm the Rakkor used, but without decorative embellishments. Riven was about to don this last piece when she paused and glanced over at one of the hextech lamps. She frowned, then put the helm down instead.

Katarina didn't ask why. To ask why would cause delay.

Finally, at long last, Riven reached for her sword, which she'd left leaning against the stone wall as she armed herself.

A wild grin spread across Katarina's face as Riven walked out to the center of the room and adopted a guard position across from her.

Riven, face completely blank, nodded.

Together, they began the age-old dance, circling each other, watching the other's movements, calculating.

Riven's footwork was quite quick considering the weight she was fighting with. Katarina didn't doubt her bladework would be equally swift, though it probably would pale in comparison to Katarina's own speed. Katarina circled faster. If the fight went on for long enough, she'd have the advantage if she could wear Riven down.

Testing, Katarina took a slight step in. When Riven didn't react, she thought at first that perhaps the soldier hadn't noticed. But when Riven continued to circle at the same pace even after enough time had passed that she had to have noticed, Katarina decided that sluggishness hadn't been it at all. Riven had read that it wasn't a true attack, that there was no intent behind it, and she'd held her ground.

Katarina's grin widened. So her opponent was smart. Good.

They circled for a few more agonizing minutes, then Katarina took three steps back and lowered her blades to her side. Neither of them wanted to launch the first attack, to show their enemy anything more than they had to before they were in the perfect position to finish the duel. So Katarina would force Riven to start. The redhead stood perfectly still. Relaxed, she waited.

The only warning tell Riven gave before she was lunging forward was the slightest tightening of her grip on her massive sword. In the blink of an eye she closed the distance between them and brought her blade crashing down in a sweeping diagonal cut that, if left unchecked, would cleave Katarina's body into two bloody halves.

For a split second, Katarina hesitated. Should she dodge or block? If she blocked, would her arms hold? The moment of indecision cost her a few strands of hair as she flung herself backwards and landed in a crouch.

No, she'd decided. If she parried, her arms would crumple and she'd be lucky to only be flung across the room. She needed to stay on her feet and avoid Riven's blade at all costs.

Unperturbed by missing her target, Riven sprinted forward, swinging her blade again, this time in a clean horizontal swipe aimed for Katarina's navel.

Katarina threw herself forward and down, ducking under the sword. She tucked into a roll and made to drive her knife into the side of Riven's knee, above the greave but below the protection of the fauld.

Riven brought her leg up, catching Katarina's blade on her shinguard, then kicked out, slamming her heel into Katarina's shoulder.

Katarina went with the momentum and spun to the side and out of distance. Slowly, she rose to her feet again. Experimentally, she tried the range of motion for the shoulder Riven had kicked. Nothing was broken, nothing was dislocated. It hurt, but mere pain was inconsequential.

Riven took a few steps back and dropped back into a guard position. "That could have crippled me," she said. Her breathing was heavy and a sheen of sweat was visible on her brow.

Katarina mimicked her opponent, also dropping into guard. "It didn't," she said.

Riven's lips pulled into a tight line. "I thought this would be friendly."

"This is as friendly as I get," Katarina replied. She smirked. "Are you complaining?"

"No," Riven answered. And then she charged. This time she was faster, much faster, turning her blade this way and that, always on the move toward Katarina.

Katarina spun in every direction, narrowly avoiding Riven's blade, sometimes even redirecting it with her own blades, as she launched her own counterattacks, aiming for the soft places that Riven's plate armor left unprotected – the knees, the armpits, the space just above the elbow, the back, the throat.

But every time Katarina attacked, Riven blocked. Sometimes it was by shifting her body so Katarina's weapon landed harmlessly on armor, sometimes it was by swatting the blade aside with her armored gauntlet and vambrace on her off-hand, sometimes it was even by bringing her sword back to cut off Katarina's arm before she could finish her strike.

Finally, after a particularly close call where Katarina's blade came just short of slitting Riven's throat and Riven's sword nearly removed Katarina's left leg at the thigh, the redhead disengaged and took several steps back.

The fight was much, much closer than she was comfortable with.

And that made it exhilarating.

Part of her wanted the battle to last forever, for a Riven covered in her own blood to fight until her legs gave out and she collapsed at Katarina's feet.

Part of her just wanted to rip Riven's cuirass off so she could bury her knife hilt-deep in the woman's gut and watch her squirm.

Katarina wiped sweat out of her eyes with the back of her hand.

Across from her, Riven didn't compromise her guard by copying the action, instead simply blinking away the salty drops. Her body shook with exhaustion. A thin line of crimson appeared across her throat where Katarina's curved knife had slipped along skin. Riven didn't bother wiping that away either.

Katarina took a deep breath, forcing the frenzied, adrenaline-fueled energy in her body down into something she could control.

Riven was bleeding.

But she wasn't bleeding enough.

Katarina hadn't won yet.

As they began to circle once more, a plan formed in Katarina's mind. If she could just get Riven to commit…

Cautious, she stepped into the soldier's range.

The two women circled for several more steps before the soldier lunged.

It was a diagonal cut, going up from floor to ceiling – not what Katarina needed. The redhead easily dodged and resumed the standoff. Riven's strike had been slower than before though, and that meant her plan might work.

Again, Katarina stepped in to bait an attack.

This one – yes, this one was a horizontal sweep, the same pattern as when they'd begun their dance.

Faster than the eye could follow, Katarina brought her blades forward, crossing them together and bracing her arms so that when she caught the blow, steel on steel, she only skidded back across the stone floor instead of being knocked off her feet.

It was the first time in the entire match Katarina had used her weapons to completely stop the motion of Riven's sword.

Riven's eyes widened in surprise.

But Katarina wasn't done.

In the brief moment she had Riven's weapon locked down, she half-jumped half-spun up so that she landed on top of the broad flat of the sword.

Instead of struggling against the added weight, Riven let go.

Seeing her chance, Katarina dove forward, blades outstretched and sweeping, aiming for Riven's soft throat.

The soldier looked like she was about to stumble back in a vain attempt to dodge, but then she stepped forward. She brought both her arms up, blocking Katarina's knives against her steel armguards. Then, in a textbook motion straight from basic training, the soldier brought her hands down and caught Katarina's wrists, one in each hand. She finished the motion by yanking the assassin forward.

Katarina had just enough time to regret her overconfidence, her over-commitment to the attack she'd been sure would land, before Riven's forehead smashed into hers and her world went dark.

* * *

When she regained consciousness, Katarina was painfully aware of the throbbing in her head and the awful buzzing of the hextech lamps of the practice room. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Above her, the ceiling spun. Trying to make the world steady through sheer force of will, Katarina forced herself up into a sitting position and looked around.

Riven, still fully armed, had retreated to the doorway. The soldier sat, slightly hunched over and with her sword on her lap, atop her chest and watched Katarina quietly. There was an angry red splotch on her forehead, which no doubt had its twin on Katarina's own brow. The spilt blood on her throat had dried and was already flaking off.

"You head-butted me," Katarina stated, as if she didn't herself believe it. Some small part of her scarcely believed she was alive. Had she been in Riven's place…

"You jumped on my sword," Riven replied evenly.

"I blacked out," Katarina continued. Defeat colored her voice with restrained fury. Who was this woman to beat her and then walk away and sit down as if she wasn't a threat to be reckoned with? Riven was the victor. Twice now. Katarina's jaw throbbed with the memory of a seven months distant punch.

"You did," said Riven.

Carefully, Katarina pushed herself to her feet. She ignored the way the ground refused to stay in one place under her. Half-stumbling as she walked, she went to where her blades lay on the floor, neatly lined up with one another and very definitely out of reach of where she'd been lying. When she had them in her hands again, she hesitated for a moment.

Still sitting by the door, Riven's hand drifted towards the hilt of her sword.

Katarina took a deep, steadying breath, then slipped her blades back into their sheathes strapped across her back. She turned back to Riven. "Take that off," Katarina snapped. She waved her hand towards the soldier, not really pointing to anything in particular. "You came here to learn to read, didn't you?"

Riven undressed with the same dexterity as she'd armed herself with. Carefully, she packed her armor back into its chest. When she'd finished, Katarina lead them back up the servant's stair and then through the house up to her chambers on the third floor.

All the while, in silence, she replayed their battle in her mind. All the things she could have done better. The actions that could have been made with more efficiency. The places she hesitated when simply doing would have won her the fight. The way Riven moved – with power and speed and unerring control. Katarina was even willing to swallow her pride and describe Riven's form as somewhat awe-inspiring, though the soldier did occasionally rely too heavily on drilled forms. And… some part of her hoped that Riven had been as impressed with her as she had been with Riven.

A step or two behind her, Katarina did not doubt that the soldier was also analyzing the fight.

Had there been places where Riven had made mistakes, had failed to capitalize on openings, failed to make the attack that would have ended the battle? Of course there had been, Katarina had seen them flash by. But had Riven noticed them? Something twisted in the pit of Katarina's stomach. Had Riven noticed them and let them pass?

When they reached Katarina's rooms, Riven sat down on the same couch as the day before without being told.

Katarina went into her study and brought back pens and paper. When she returned to her sitting room, she glanced at the light that peaked out from around her heavy drapes. Their fight had taken the better part of the afternoon and the day was already passing into evening.

Katarina sat down across from Riven and slid a pen and a piece of paper over to the soldier. "Write your alphabet."

Riven took the pen and began to write.

To Katarina's astonishment, the soldier finished in half the time she'd taken at the end of her lesson the day before.

When Riven finished, she slid the paper back.

Katarina picked it up. All thirty letters were there, and only one or two were deformed. She looked up and stared at Riven. "You practiced," she said.

Riven cracked a very small smile.

Katarina looked back down at the paper. "But it's still not good enough." She reached for a pen and copied out the alphabet correctly, paying extra attention to her handwriting for the letters Riven had botched. She handed the paper back. "Now do it again."

To Katarina's supreme annoyance, Riven continued to smile as she bent her head once more and went to work. The redhead glared, but to no effect. Eventually, giving up, Katarina sank down into her couch, arms crossed and fingers drumming against her bicep, and resigned herself to spending the rest of the afternoon watching Riven happily copy out the alphabet over and over and over again.

Some time after the sun set outside, Katarina finally took her pen back. "We'll continue tomorrow."

Riven nodded and stretched out her fingers.

"Bring your sword," Katarina ordered.

Riven's brow furrowed slightly and the smile that had been playing on her lips throughout their session finally faded, though she remained silent.

Ignoring her, Katarina collected the writing implements and returned them to her study. When she came back to the sitting room, Riven was already standing and holding her things, ready to leave.

At the front door of the mansion, as Riven was crossing the threshold out, Katarina impulsively reached out and tapped the soldier on the shoulder. Riven paused and turned.

"I won't try to kill you again," Katarina said.

The smile returned. "Thank you."

* * *

A/N: I'm not an expert on medieval armor by any means - I know just enough to pretend I kind of know what I'm talking about so long as my audience knows less than I do. I have a bit more experience with historic swords than I do historic body armor.

Cuirass: A cuirass is a breastplate. A cuirass can also include a backplate, but not in this case.  
Faulds: Faulds are pieces of plate armor that hang down from the cuirass (so they're attached to and supported by the cuirass, they are not, like, strapped onto the thigh or something) and protect the upper thigh.  
Spaulders: A spaulder protects the upper arm. It's smaller than a pauldron. Think, like, little metal cup over the shoulder with a part extending down a little over the arm.  
Vambrace: The vambrace is the piece that protects the forearm.  
Greaves: That's the piece for your shin.  
Riven's Padded Shirt: The shirt Riven puts on is actually an arming doublet (or a gambeson) but this was one place where I felt I was able to easily use a colloquial term.

Hope you liked the chapter!


	4. Burials: Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you to my beta readers Deixis and Balabalabagan. I couldn't write this stuff without these guys.

And, as always, thanks to everyone reading! Sorry this chapter showed up kind of late and a little short. I had it written a week ago, and then I changed my mind about the plot of later chapters and cut off about six hundred words, and then my beta readers and I were so busy with Dark Souls (and then I was super busy with gainful employment) that we didn't get around to going over it until yesterday (I've been so busy that my solo queue rank has dropped due to inactivity, if that tells you anything about how busy I've been).

* * *

Katarina allowed herself a self-indulgent sigh as slumped in her chair and shoved a stack of papers from one corner of her desk to her other. Outside, winter had closed many roads and made travel difficult. With both the Noxian and Demacian armies idling at home, assignments for the agents of Noxus were rare to the point of being non-existent. A perfect time, according to High Command, for paperwork and intelligence briefings.

Katarina shoved the pile back to the other corner of her desk.

Yes, it definitely looked better there.

On a whim, Katarina yanked out one of the papers from the middle of the stack and glanced at it.

A report on the Black Rose.

The Black Rose was an antiquated fairytale.

She rolled her eyes and dropped the report into the waste bin next to her desk, then glanced up to the clock that sat above the door of her study. She reached for another random paper. Perhaps this one would be about alligators in the sewer… But no, it was a summary of trade in southern Ionia. Didn't Noxus have accountants for this sort of work? With great reluctance, Katarina resisted the urge to drop the Ionian dossier in the trash as well and forced herself to read about the importance of Shon-Xan steel refining. When she finished, she fished the Black Rose brief out of the garbage.

As the morning slowly passed, Katarina looked up at her clock after every page she went through. When it was finally midday, she shoved her chair back from the desk violently, got up, and stretched. Without taking the time to organize the mess of papers strewn over her desk, Katarina left her quarters. While the walk to the front door would normally have taken nearly ten minutes, she ducked through a few hidden doors and passages to arrive in half that time.

Glancing around the entrance hall, Katarina was pleased to see neither Cassiopeia nor Talon nor, gods forbid, her father. She did not pause to wonder why she was particularly loathe to see the general at that moment because a sharp knock at the door interrupted any thoughts before they could form.

She took a few quick steps toward the entry then checked herself, slowing her pace to a casual walk. When she stood before the heavy oaken door, she paused and waited several heartbeats before opening it.

On the other side stood Riven, wearing the same sort of clothes as the day before, with her sword in one hand and her armor in the other. This time she did not look around the room and instead focused on Katarina immediately. The soldier nodded. "My lady."

Again, Katarina did not correct her. Instead, she turned her back to the soldier and began to head for the far end of the hall and the corridor that led to the basement stairs. "Come."

Behind Katarina, Riven closed the door and followed.

When they reached the practice room, Katarina flicked on the lights and immediately set out for the weapon racks in the back of the chamber. She heard Riven's heavy wooden chest drop to the stone floor with a loud thud. "Don't bother with armor," Katarina said. "You won't be wearing it today."

Without looking, Katarina knew Riven's brow was furrowed as the woman frowned in confusion.

"What do you want?"

Taken by surprise, the redhead nearly jumped when Riven spoke. She turned to face the soldier, who stood by the door, sword still leaning up against her broad shoulder. Katarina had become so used to Riven's silence that the question seemed somehow more important than it probably was. She hesitated before replying, "Teach me..." Katarina turned back around to the large display of weapons and took the Demacian greatsword from it. "How to use this," she finished.

Riven's frown deepened before her face smoothed into a neutral expression and she nodded. "Right or left?"

Katarina shrugged. "Both," she said. Though Riven was laconic to a fault, it was easy to understand the first question any weapon master ever asked their students. "Either."

Riven swung her blade down from her shoulder and grasped it with both hands, her left hand a little below the cross-guard and her right just above the pommel weight. She brought the hilt down by right her side with the sword pointed forward as she widened her feet and bent her knees to a swordsman's guard.

Katarina moved her hands to mimic Riven's and dropped into the same guard stance. In her hands, the sword was not so heavy that she couldn't move it, but she was keenly aware of the strain on her arms as she held it at her side.

Standing across from Katarina, Riven set down her massive sword and walked over to the redhead. She reached out to adjust the redhead's grip.

Before Riven could touch her, Katarina jerked away slightly.

Riven froze. She looked up, searching for Katarina's eyes. "May I?"

Katarina nodded and dearly hoped that the embarrassed heat in her face was not as visible as it felt. She mentally cursed her lapse of control. All her life she'd been working with trainers who poked, prodded, yanked and beat her body into the right forms. This was nothing different.

Riven's tanned and calloused hands enveloped Katarina's pale ones and gently corrected their position before guiding the sword to the proper position for a basic guard. When Riven was satisfied, she walked back to her own sword and raised it once more. In a single graceful motion she moved from a waist level right side guard to one on her left, then switched back. Several more times she demonstrated the motion slowly, then indicated for Katarina to try.

The first time Katarina tried to copy the action, she caught her elbows on her torso and somehow tangled her arms together in the cross motion. Avoiding looking at Riven's face, or even in the soldier's direction, Katarina grit her teeth, returned to the first guard, and tried again. Again she fouled up the transition. Before Katarina could finish resetting a second time, Riven was standing next to her and reaching out to fix her position. Somehow, during the two botched transitions, Katarina's hands had slipped away from their proper places and she hadn't returned to the correct guard on either attempt.

When Riven had adjusted Katarina's guard, instead of letting go and letting the redhead fumble her way through the motion again, she remained at the other woman's side, kept her hands on the greatsword, and guided Katarina through the action.

Katarina was quite aware that when Riven helped, the transition was easier, of course, but the sword was lighter as well. The redhead allowed herself no illusions. Riven was supporting at least half the weight of the blade for her.

Two more times Riven helped Katarina through the transition before backing away and watching Katarina demonstrate the motion on her own.

"Was that it?" Katarina asked.

Riven nodded, then took up the giant Noxian zweihander from the floor. Wielding the weapon as if it weighed nothing at all, she brought it level to the crown of her head in a high guard.

Katarina refrained from demanding if Riven really meant for the redhead to lift the greatsword that high. Bracing her feet against the floor and tensing every muscle in her body, Katarina raised her blade up. She got it up almost to her around her ear before her arms began to shake. She lowered the sword again. "Can you…" Katarina began.

Riven waited patiently across from her, watching, waiting.

Katarina scowled. "Can you help me?"

This time when Riven grasped the hilt of the sword with her, Katarina was quite sure the soldier was lifting considerably more than half of the weight. Together, they brought the weapon up into a high guard.

And then Riven let go.

Katarina's arms trembled for a moment, and then the sword started to sink, inch by inch, straight down.

Riven grabbed it before it could drop to the floor and pushed it back up into the high guard.

Katarina spent the rest of the lesson with Riven standing close by holding the sword up for her.

By the time Riven indicated they'd do no more, the redhead was positive her entire face was similar in color to her hair. Not once had she acknowledged the extent of Riven's help and she had no plans to do so. But she knew. And Riven knew.

It was almost all Katarina could do to keep the greatsword from dragging across the stone floor as she went to put it away. Her arms and her back and her legs and the rest of her ached in a way they hadn't since she'd first begun training with her father years and years ago. Though she wanted to collapse in a corner and just lie there for a while, Katarina forced herself to keep her shoulders high and her head up as she headed for the door.

As discreetly as she could, she glanced at Riven's face.

That obnoxious smile of hers was playing across the soldier's features and her eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. Katarina half expected Riven to reach out and try to ruffle her hair.

"I'd like to see you throw a knife," Katarina muttered. She yanked the door of the room open and started the long walk up to her quarters.

"I can't," replied Riven, falling into step behind her host.

Before Katarina's better judgment could rein her in, the words were out of her mouth. "Perhaps I'll show you sometime."

Long moments of silence followed – enough time for them to ascend halfway up to the second floor, almost enough time for Katarina to forget her offer – before Riven said, "I'd like that."

The rest of the afternoon progressed much like the previous one had, and the one before it. Finally satisfied with Riven's alphabet, Katarina began to drill her on the names of the letters, forcing her to repeat them over and over, until her voice was hoarse, and then several more times for good measure.

When the sun set outside, Katarina cleaned up the papers they'd been using. "Come back tomorrow," she said.

Riven nodded.

Katarina escorted her guest to the door and then, when the soldier had left, the redhead returned to the practice room. Though her body screamed in protest, she forced herself to pull the greatsword down from its place on the weapon rack and she forced herself to drag it up into a guard. For the rest of the night, stopping only for a brief dinner in the kitchens, she drilled what few motions she could perform by herself until the sword slipped out of her hands.

Kneeling on the floor, Katarina rested for a few minutes, then heaved the sword up and hauled it back to its proper place. When she finally collapsed into her bed, she was asleep almost before she landed.

The next several weeks fell into a pattern for Katarina. In the mornings, aching from the previous day, she would rise with the sun and practice her own forms, lest her blade grow dull. Then came paperwork. At midday, she quickly made her way to the front door, where Riven always arrived at precisely seven minutes past the hour. Together, they would make their way to the basement and Riven would lead Katarina through a set of drills, which lasted until the soldier decided to stop. Occasionally they would have some short conversation about weapon maintenance or tactics or the like, though most days they spent the walk up to Katarina's rooms in silence. The remainder of the day was devoted to dragging Riven into the literate world.

Katarina was certain she was growing stronger, maybe even strong enough to wield the greatsword by herself for a time, but Riven continued to stay at her side, splitting the weight of the weapon with her. Though she knew she ought to, Katarina did not ask the soldier to step aside. If she did, and if she were to drop the sword, she'd never be able to look Riven in the eye again. And, truthfully, after she'd become accustomed to it over the first few days, she didn't mind the soldier's presence so much.

For Riven's part, in reading and writing, the white-haired woman's progress was painfully slow and fraught with frustration. As they moved into stringing letters together to make words, Riven's progress slowed to a crawl. It was obvious the soldier was doing her best, but her best wasn't good enough. Katarina couldn't understand how such a simple thing could pose such a challenge. After a time, she gave up telling her student to try harder – Riven couldn't try any harder than she already was – and resorted to celebrating every tiny victory. To her own surprise, Katarina found that her celebration was actually genuine. Every time the soldier pieced together a string of words, the redhead felt as though she herself had achieved something as well.

In this fashion, the otherwise dull winter weeks passed swiftly and the days grew short.

It was not until nearly the solstice that anything disrupted them.

"I can't be here tomorrow," Katarina said. The assassin was leaning against the doorframe of the mansion's front door as she waited for Riven to retrieve her heavy winter coat from the cloakroom.

Riven waited until she had her coat, gloves, and hat on before asking, "When will I see you again?"

"The day after," replied Katarina. "Tomorrow afternoon I need to deliver a report at High Command. It won't take me long but…" She gestured to one of the great glass windows that framed the doorway. Outside, the sun was rapidly setting over the snow-covered world. "There won't be much time for anything when I get back here."

"A report?" Riven asked.

Katarina shrugged. "I have to check in every month during the winter. Drop off paperwork. Pick up paperwork… Speak with my superiors..."

Riven nodded slowly, then, "May I…" She trailed off and frowned, casting her red eyes off to the side as if the fading portrait of Katarina's great-great-grandmother was suddenly extremely fascinating. "Never mind," she muttered as she started to head for the door.

Katarina pushed herself off the wall and into Riven's path. "Never mind what?" she demanded. "May you what?"

"It's not important," Riven said. She stopped in front of Katarina at a reasonable distance, not actively trying to leave but simply waiting for the redhead to step aside.

Katarina crossed her arms over her chest and let her weight rest mostly on her right leg, her hip sticking out slightly. "You've piqued my curiosity. Indulge me."

Riven switched from examining at Katarina's great-great-grandmother to staring at the wall behind Katarina's head and a little to the left. "I was going to ask if I could come with you."

Not moving out of the way, Katarina asked, "Why?"

Finally, Riven moved her gaze to meet Katarina's. Though her eyes were steady, her hands were fidgeting. "I… heard my captain is there," she said. "But I don't have rank to enter alone. It would mean a lot to me if-"

"Meet me here tomorrow at our usual time and wear a nice uniform," Katarina interrupted. Briefly, the memory of Riven seated in the Du Couteau sitting room, appearing every inch the Noxian officer, flashed through Katarina's mind's eye. "The one you wore when you first came here would work."

Riven, expression unreadable, nodded. "Thank you."

Katarina was ever so slightly peeved that the soldier hadn't smiled. "Aren't you happy?" she asked.

"I'm already in your debt," Riven answered. "I don't want to ask for so much."

Katarina snorted in a manner that no doubt would have drawn her sister's ire had the younger Du Couteau been present. "This is nothing," she said. Belatedly realizing how arrogant she must sound, Katarina hastily added, "Think of it as your solstice present. Gifts don't earn debts."

"Only gifts," Riven replied. "I'll have to get you something for solstice in return." The sought after smile started to spread across her face.

Stepping out of the way at last, Katarina opened the door. "Better make it good, soldier."

Riven chuckled and stepped out into the winter evening.

* * *

A/N: So yeah. I hope you liked it. Next chapter there will be more going on than Riven and Kat sitting around in a house. Yay! And more characters! I think!


	5. Burials: Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you so much to Deixis and Balabalabagan for betaing this. This story would be sooo much worse off without them.

And, of course, thank you to everyone who's reading.

* * *

Katarina had just finished snapping shut the last clasp of her black greatcoat when she heard Riven's knocking. She glanced at the clock mounted across the entrance hall. Five past the hour. The soldier was two minutes early. For a brief moment, Katarina considered waiting before answering the door, but as quickly as the thought came, she pushed it aside. If she'd wanted to make Riven wait, she wouldn't have arrived early herself.

After checking one last time to make sure she had all the papers she needed in her bag, Katarina opened the door and stepped out of the mansion to join Riven in the cold. "Riven," she greeted.

Riven tipped her head slightly. The soldier had her hands buried deep in the pockets of her thick wool overcoat and, though she'd pulled her hat down to cover her ears, her face was ruddy from the frost.

Katarina pulled the door of the Du Couteau mansion shut. "Let's go."

Since Katarina lived near the peak of the mountain that was the city, the walk to High Command was not long. However, in Noxian winter, no walk was short. Servants had shoveled snow out of the road and into great piles by street corners that morning, but since then more had fallen and it crunched beneath Katarina's leather boots with every step she took. Every now and then a gust of icy wind howled between the canyons formed by adjacent building walls and cut straight through Katarina's thick coat. She had to brace herself each time to stop her teeth from chattering.

A half-step behind her, Riven seemed immune to the weather. Her teeth did not chatter, her body did not shiver, and her back wasn't hunched down against the wind like Katarina's. If not for her outfit and the way she kept her hands sheltered in her pockets, she could have been strolling along in the heat of summer.

When a particularly nasty blast of wind tried to steal the breath straight from Katarina's lungs, the redhead snapped, "Aren't you cold?"

Riven shrugged. "A little."

Having spent nearly a month seeing Riven every day, Katarina knew the soldier wouldn't volunteer any more information unless pressed. Trying to stound curious instead of whining, she asked, "Why aren't you cold?"

Again, Riven shrugged. "I don't know. I don't get cold easily."

Katarina huffed and her breath came out in a little puff of white vapor. "They should send you to the Freljord then," she said. "You can lead the charge through the blizzard."

"I'd rather not," Riven said mildly.

"Why?" Katarina asked.

Riven didn't respond immediately. High Command loomed high overhead at the end of the street when she finally said, "My hair is white. If I got lost in a snow drift, no one would be able to find me."

Katarina stopped abruptly in the middle of the street. She turned and she stared at Riven.

Riven stopped and stared back.

"You spent the last five minutes deciding to say that," Katarina said.

"Yes," Riven replied.

Katarina shook her head slowly as she turned back towards the great solid iron gates of High Command and resumed her walk. The sound of snow beneath boots behind her indicated Riven followed once more.

All it took was a casual wave to the guard for the gates to open before them. There were few doors in High Command that did not open for the daughter of General Marcus Du Couteau. There were few doors anywhere in Noxus that did not open for the daughter of General Marcus Du Couteau.

Beyond the gates was a vast stone courtyard. It was not paved with brick like the streets outside the compound, for it had been carved out of the peak of the mountain itself. On three sides, the massive palace of Noxian High Command rose up, towering at five stories of steel and stone and gold. Dating from generations past, when Noxus still had a king and the Du Couteau were the king's blades, the stately building had housed every regime to rule the city since.

"Don't stare," Katarina said, without looking back at her companion. "It makes you look like you don't belong."

"I don't," Riven said quietly.

Walking toward the main doors of the right hand wing of the palace, Katarina squared her shoulders slightly. "No one has to know that."

Within the building, a servant rushed to take and stow their winter coats and hats. Katarina easily slipped out of her thick cloak and held it out for the man, hardly sparing him a glance. Riven did the same, though she brushed off some of the snow from hers and whispered a word of thanks to the attendant.

Without her coat, Riven looked almost exactly as she had that first day she'd arrived at the Du Couteau mansion. Her short hair was a touch longer and her posture ever so slightly more relaxed , but she was otherwise the same handsome soldier. Trailing her eyes over Riven's form, Katarina wondered – if she reached out and touched the other woman, what would Riven feel like? Riven probably felt like hard muscle.

Turning down one of the many corridors of High Command, Katarina ordered, "Follow me."

Wordless, Riven obeyed.

Katarina walked the twists and turns of High Command's labyrinth without really paying attention to her route. She'd come here so many times before, since she was a young girl, that she knew her steps as well as she knew how to get from her room at home to the basement practice room. She could do it blindfolded, in her sleep even. Not needing to navigate, Katarina could afford to turn her attention to her companion.

Despite Katarina's admonition, Riven was staring at everything. She stared at the walls and their tapestries threaded with precious metals, at the burgundy carpets on the floors, at the high glass windows, at the shining doorknobs, even at the servants whom most preferred to ignore. Watching Riven's head turn this way and that was like watching a leaf in a particularly turbulent gust of wind.

"I told you High Command had gold," Katarina remarked. "This is what you've been fighting for."

Riven turned her wandering gaze toward Katarina and crimson eyes met green ones.

Though Riven said nothing, a sharp lance of doubt stabbed into Katarina's gut. Doing her best to ignore it, the redhead shrugged. "This and whatever else you believe in."

Though Riven habitually said little, Katarina had come to accept that and the quiet that existed between them rarely felt unnatural. The silence following the redhead's words this time, however, was downright oppressive. By the time Katarina reached her destination, one of many unmarked wooden doors along the hall, she was grateful to have an excuse to speak once more.

"Wait here," Katarina said. "I'll be out when I've finished my report."

Riven nodded and moved to stand by the far wall of the corridor.

Without knocking, Katarina let herself into her father's office and closed the door behind her. Once in the office, she came to attention and waited to be addressed.

Marcus Du Couteau, a tall and wiry man in the later years of his life, did not look up to acknowledge his daughter's entrance. Greying head bent over a pile of papers, he dipped his quill into an inkpot and signed his name on yet another document. He did this several more times before he remarked, in a conversational tone, "You should knock. I raised you in a mansion, not a barn."

"You knew I was coming, you knew it was me, sir," Katarina said. "You know exactly who's coming to see you and when they'll arrive before they've gotten past the front gate." She removed her papers from her bag and set them on her father's desk before taking a step back to return to her original position.

The general sealed a message and pushed it into a stack of other notes like it at the corner of his workspace. He finally looked up, settling back in his seat and fixing his bright emerald eyes on his eldest child. "What I know has no bearing on your manners – manners which you should recall particularly well when you have a guest. Can you imagine what my life would be like if everyone in this damn building decided they could waltz in here without knocking? Your sister would not have made such a mistake."

"Yes sir," said Katarina, trying to keep her voice even and free of embarrassment. Her father was right, of course. She should have knocked. But comparing her to Cassiopeia? That wasn't fair. "Cass would not have made that mistake," she agreed, "She's very good at manners. It is unfortunate she doesn't know the hilt of a knife from the pointy end."

The eldest Du Couteau let out a short laugh, just enough to show his amusement, hardly a laugh at all. "We all have our shortcomings." He paused, then, "And that is not one of your sister's. I have it on good authority a young man attempted to touch her without permission last week and she stabbed him in the neck with a nearby letter opener. The pointy end, apparently."

Katarina blinked. Her first thought was to find this supposed young man and slit his throat, but it seemed that had already been done. Her second thought was to wonder that this event had escaped her attention. Cassiopeia and Katarina maintained a sort of truce on meddling with one another's lives, when Cassiopeia wasn't bored, but surely Katarina would have noticed something like this. "Why didn't I know?" she asked.

"Because it didn't concern you," Marcus Du Couteau answered. "And because my department spent the last five days covering it up. It's truly unfortunate what happens when men drink too much and slip down a flight of stairs. Your poor sister was traumatized, someone dying in front of her like that."

Katarina was about to make a sarcastic remark, but when she realized her father wasn't done speaking yet, she held her tongue.

He continued, "I tell you this to remind you that just because she didn't choose to follow the path that you and I did – that does not mean Cassiopeia is incompetent or incapable of taking care of herself."

Katarina swallowed and nodded. "Yes sir."

"As for why you are here today," said the general, "Tell me, what have you been doing with your days in the past several weeks?"

"I've been training," Katarina replied automatically. "And I've been reading the reports I've been assigned." Dread weighed heavy in the pit of her stomach.

"And?" the general prompted.

"And I've been teaching…" Katarina hesitated. Her father was asking her the sake of testing her opinions. He already knew everything. There were no secrets in the Du Couteau household. Not between the four of them, all spies in their own way with the Noxian spymaster himself as their head – the only secrets were the things the others decided to ignore.

Katarina's father waited patiently.

"Riven how to read," Katarina finished.

"You will cease at once," Marcus Du Couteau stated. "Your time is valuable and teaching basic literacy to a soldier you hardly know is beneath you. If you must, pay a tutor, someone who actually knows how to teach. The hours that you spend every day watching her fail, over and over again, would be better spent on your own training."

Katarina started, "Sir, I-

"Furthermore," the general interrupted, "If you continue your attempts to learn a weapon completely unsuited to your style and strengths, you will hire a trainer, not a foot soldier you chanced to meet in a swamp, especially not a soldier who lets you use her like a crutch."

Katarina took a deep breath and steeled herself. "Sir, I gave my word."

"Then you should have thought more carefully before speaking," her father said evenly.

Katarina took a step towards her father's desk. "Why didn't you say something before?"

"The situation has changed," answered the general. "In the coming months, High Command will call upon you to serve as you never have before. You can no longer afford to waste your time. You are Katarina Du Couteau, the Sinister Blade of Noxus. You have a duty to your city and to our family. Whatever other promises you've made – they come second. Your _life_ depends on this."

Unsure how to respond, Katarina stood before her father in silence.

He was right.

Of course he was right.

He was always right.

Frozen there, beneath the weight of her name and her oaths to Noxus, she'd never felt so small. "Yes sir."

"Dismissed."

Slowly, Katarina wheeled about towards the door. When she'd almost reached it, she heard her father's voice again.

"Kat, I'm sorry."

Katarina swallowed. "Yes sir." She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, already choosing her words, already rescheduling her days. Her mouth was already half open when she realized Riven was not alone.

Riven and, of all people, the new lieutenant general Darius stood in the center of the corridor, conversing with the ease of comrades in arms. The white-haired soldier's posture was loose, as loose as Katarina had ever seen it over the month they'd spent every afternoon together.

Both Riven and Darius quickly glanced over to the redhead as she emerged from her father's office, but then their attention returned to each other.

Darius voice was reminiscent of gravel. "You survived."

For a moment Riven's jaw tightened, but then it relaxed again. "A few of us did, sir."

Darius' reply was immediate. "You were strong."

Katarina pulled the heavy door shut behind her. She refrained from scowling at the brute who'd helped himself to the heads of so many prominent Noxian families. Had Cassiopeia been present, the younger Du Couteau would no doubt have been proud of her sister's well-mannered self-control. "Riven, let's go."

Riven turned her head towards Katarina, then to Darius, then to Katarina, then, finally, back to Darius.

Katarina's eyes narrowed.

Darius spared Katarina another glance, then scoffed. It wasn't quite a scoff, really, more like a grunt somewhere deep in his throat. Perhaps it was a grunt. "You're wanted elsewhere… To your question - he's in his chambers in the basement, resting." Something dark passed over the general's face and his words slowed, "Don't go."

"Is that an order?" Riven asked.

Darius shook his head. "No. It's advice. From one of his friends to another."

"I need to," replied Riven.

Darius nodded. "You're strong, Riven. Don't forget that. I'll see you again." Farewell made, the general walked past Katarina and headed to parts unknown in the maze-like compound.

Katarina glared at his departing back. "You know him?"

Riven nodded. What ease she'd had in Darius' presence faded, replaced by the constant tension of wariness.

"How?"

"He served with my captain when they were younger. They liked to drink together," Riven said.

"Oh," said Katarina. She gestured, "Come on, it's this way."

They'd only gone a few steps when Riven cut in, "My lady, what's wrong?"

Katarina paused – that damning hesitation. The words she'd prepared were gone from her mind as surely as if they'd never been there. But they had been, moments ago. And she'd lost them. Stalling for time, the redhead muttered, "You can call me Katarina."

Riven said nothing, waiting for Katarina to answer her question.

"Why do you think something's wrong?" Katarina asked.

A pace behind her, Katarina heard the rustle of fabric as Riven shrugged.

"Nothing's wrong," Katarina said.

It wasn't a lie.

Riven was silent.

The words still weren't there.

It didn't actually matter so much what the words ended up being.

Whatever she said, Riven was going to nod quietly and walk out of her life without protest.

If there was one thing the soldier understood, it was duty. That, and strength.

They kept walking.

Though she'd never descended into the basement of High Command before, Katarina had studied the floor plans of the palatial structure often enough to know the way. Right, left, left, down the stairs, down the stairs… The hallways of the main building were chilly, but the underground area was downright frigid. Years ago, every torch in High Command had been replaced with a hextech lamp, the sort of lamp that gave off very little heat. A shiver passed over Katarina's skin and she wished she'd brought her coat.

Following, Riven was still seemingly immune to the cold. As they'd passed from the opulence of the upper stories and into what could be called a dungeon, she'd switched from gaping at every gilt fixture to staring a hole into Katarina's back.

Before all else, Katarina was an assassin and that stare made her nervous, made her feel vulnerable, like she needed to turn around and fight, like she needed to sprint down the corridor and find somewhere safe to hide.

The duration of their walk was short, as time was wont to speed up whenever Katarina preferred it slow down. She came to a halt before a solid iron door. "This one," she said. Instead of opening the door for Riven, she stepped aside.

The white-haired soldier grasped the handle of the door, opened it, entered, and closed it behind her.

Katarina was left in the hallway, staring at the many scratches that had built up on the metal surface over the decades it had sat in its frame.

Though she strained her ears, Katarina could hear nothing from the other side of the door.

Seconds ticked by, then minutes, and all Katarina had with her in the stone corridor were her thoughts.

Slowly, the words came back to her, one by one until they were laid out in her mind like a highway paved in brick and lit with hextech lamps at high noon.

And still the minutes passed.

In time, Katarina's mind turned to what lay beyond the door. She had never known Riven's captain, not before his death, not after it. But she did remember his decaying body vividly. And she remembered the smell. Surely the Noxian necromancers who'd restored him had done something about the smell.

That Katarina could recall, Riven had spoken of her captain only twice: once in the swamp and once the previous day. How close had they been? They must have been close, for Riven to venture forth and ask to come to meet him. And what was he now? If Darius' warning was anything to go on, not the same.

When the door finally opened again, Katarina was restlessly pacing the corridor.

One look at Riven's normally stoic face told Katarina everything she'd been pondering in the interim.

The soldier had excellent control over her features, normally, but now she was blinking faster than Katarina had ever seen her blink before and the muscles in her jaw were tight. "I'm done," she said, voice unwavering.

"Let's go then," Katarina replied. Without looking at Riven again, she lead them in silence back through the halls and up to where the servants had their coats ready.

At the iron gates of High Command, Riven stopped walking behind Katarina.

"I'll go home from here," the soldier said.

Katarina turned back to face her companion. It occurred to her that, above all else, Riven looked tired – weary, exhausted beyond measure.

Katarina swallowed. "I'll be busy again tomorrow," she said.

Riven nodded. "Will I see you the day after?"

"No."

Again, Riven nodded. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Katarina echoed. She watched the soldier turn and walk away down the street, white hair blending in perfectly with the falling snow. She kept watching until Riven turned a corner and passed out of sight.

Then, on an impulse, Katarina walked after her. The thick wintry weather muted her naturally light footsteps and, given that she had over a decade of training behind her, trailing her mark unnoticed was simple.

Riven took a winding route down the mountain, occasionally taking a turn that Katarina was sure indicated that either the soldier was lost or she'd only gone this way following someone else who'd had only a dim understanding of the city's layout. Before long they'd passed out of the upper reaches of the mountain and into the area filled by the Noxus' middle classes. In this district, instead of a house or apartment building, Riven came to a stop at an overlook.

Though Noxus had no parks, the mountain did boast a handful of places where a few feet had been left clear of construction at the edge of cliffs above the sprawl of the lower city. There were no railings, railings were the safeguards of the weak, rendering the overlooks treacherous places in winter.

Carefully, Riven picked her way to the cliff edge, brushed away some snow, and sat down, legs dangling over the edge. In the distance, the sun was dipping below the horizon and casting blood red light all across the white rooftops of Noxus.

After a moment's hesitation, Katarina made her way to the cliff edge as well and sat down beside the soldier. Out exposed to the howling wind around the mountain, she was acutely aware of how frigid the weather was and how the cold seemed to seep up from the ground she sat on.

Riven didn't turn to look at her. "I'd like to be alone," the soldier said.

"Hm," Katarina replied. She didn't move.

Riven did not try to dismiss her again.

When the sun had set and the night was lit by dim lamps on street corners and the stars and moon above, Riven got up stiffly. She held out a hand and helped Katarina do the same.

Katarina glanced back out at the city. "You live outside the walls, don't you?" she asked. "In the military housing district?" Her lips were chapped from the wind and her entire lower body felt numb from the cold.

Riven nodded.

"That's more than an hour from here," Katarina said. "We have guest rooms. No one ever uses them. Stay with us for the night."

When Riven said nothing, Katarina took it as assent. She set off for home, assuming that Riven would follow. A half block later, she found herself questioning that assumption. Behind her was silence. Beneath a hextech streetlight, Katarina stopped and looked back.

Riven still stood by the overlook.

Doubt twisted in Katarina, but she said nothing, just turned, kept walking.

In time, she heard Riven's heavy footfalls behind her.


	6. Burials: Chapter 6

A/N: Thank you to Balabalabagan and Deixis for being amazing beta readers.

And thank you to everyone who's still reading this and stuff. :)

* * *

When Katarina stepped out of her apartments and into the hallway, she found Talon waiting for her, leaning against the opposite wall of the corridor. His purple hood was up so that, though he stood in a beam of soft morning sunlight that filtered through the tall glass window at the end of the hall, his face remained shrouded in shadow.

"Why are you here?" Katarina asked, cutting straight to the point. While not entirely nocturnal, her foster brother was rarely awake before the late afternoon. For him to be there so early, waiting for her, was a surprise. Katarina did not appreciate surprises.

"She left," Talon said. "Over an hour ago. She asked me to give you this." Talon reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. Once he'd handed it over, he turned and started to walk away in the direction of his own rooms.

The redhead glanced over to the window, checking the height of the sun. An hour ago would have been before dawn. "Talon, did she say anything else?"

Talon shrugged and kept walking. "Not to me."

Katarina looked down at the paper in her hands. She recognized Riven's messy scrawl immediately. Weeks of work and the soldier's writing was still only barely legible. Katarina supposed that, at least, in the future, spies would have a difficult time forging anything from Riven's hand.

The note had only two words.

Thank you.

Katarina crumpled it up in her hand and shoved it into her pocket, then headed to breakfast.

That afternoon, she did not descend from her rooms to wait in the entrance hall. Instead, when she'd finished her morning of paperwork, she rose from her desk and walked to her personal practice room. She spent the rest of her day there, driving razor sharp knives into defenseless wooden dummies over and over again until splinters littered the floor and her steel had gone dull.

And the next day, she did the same thing.

On the third day though, when she shoved her chair backwards away from her desk, Katarina slumped down instead of getting up. She couldn't spend another afternoon decapitating training manikins. She couldn't.

It was a quick walk down the hall to Talon's rooms and shortly after she began pounding on his door the man himself emerged.

Dressed in nothing but a pair of loose silk trousers, Talon rubbed sleep from his eyes. "You need something?" he asked.

Katarina scowled at her brother. "Get dressed and get your knives," she snapped. "I need to hit something that will fight back."

For a moment Katarina thought Talon would agree, but then he shook his head. "You're in a mood," he said.

She didn't bother denying it. "So?"

"So no," Talon said. He moved to shut the door, but Katarina grabbed it and held it open.

"Why not?" the redhead demanded. "You said-

"I will train with you," Talon began. "And I will listen to you vent. I will not train with you while you vent." He reached out and one by one started to peel Katarina fingers from his door. "You remember what happened last time. So no. I'm going back to bed."

And then Talon closed the door in her face.

Katarina swore loudly and pounded on the wood for several minutes, but to no avail. Eventually, she gave up and stalked back to her apartments, where she threw herself down on the couch in her sitting room, burying her face in a throw pillow. She promised herself that as soon as she got back up, the training dummies would pay for her anger with their lives.

As soon as she got up.

Training dummies were insufficient motivation to get up.

Lying there, wallowing in her boredom, it occurred to Katarina that the pillow she'd stuffed her face in did not smell like the rest of the house.

It smelled like Riven.

This was not surprising, since Katarina was lying on the same couch Riven had sat on every day for a month.

Riven would have sparred with her. Unlike Talon.

Riven had fought Katarina and she'd kept fighting even after one of Katarina's knives grazed her neck and drew blood. It had been exhilarating.

For the briefest of moments, Katarina entertained the crazy idea of going out and finding Riven to drag the woman back to the house to fight her again. She discarded the thought quickly. Even if her father hadn't made her duties clear, she didn't even know where to start looking for the soldier, much less where to find her.

Katarina sat up and sighed, pushing the pillow aside. She needed a live opponent but she had no one.

She could go out into the city to the practice fields, but in the past her experiences there had been deeply unsatisfying. No one in the open fields could match her skill or her intensity and more than once she'd been asked to leave on account of this.

There were other places, places that didn't mind a bit of blood, places that paid for more blood even, but her father had forbade her from frequenting those venues when she was first beginning her training. It wouldn't do, he'd said, for a Du Couteau to be seen as a mere prize fighter, entertainment for the unwashed masses, nothing more than a blade for hire.

The general had no such qualms about allowing Talon to participate.

The men of Noxus who could match her were not the sort she could simply hire as opponents. They were all employed by High Command – in most cases they were High Command.

And that gave her an idea.

She'd never used it before, but she was sure that High Command had a practice room, she'd seen it in the building plans once or twice. With so many officers promoted on account of their facility for slaughter, the place was probably never empty as well. Perhaps Keiran would be there. He wasn't bright, but he was skilled and he loved to duel.

Mind made up, Katarina rose and headed for her door. She'd put on her coat in the entrance hall and was about to leave the mansion when a voice stopped her.

"Kat, a moment, please," Cassiopeia called. Dressed in a gorgeous evening gown more appropriate for a dinner party than lounging around the house, the younger Du Couteau floated into the entrance hall.

"Do you need something?" Katarina snapped, annoyed at being interrupted and dreading whatever her sister was planning for her.

"I do, actually," Cassiopeia replied as she approached.

"Then spit it out already," said Katarina. "I'm busy." To emphasize her point, she moved to hover next to the front door, her hand on the doorknob.

Cassiopeia hesitated, then, "Tomorrow," she began, "I require an escort. An admirer of mine has invited me to -

"Take Talon," Katarina said. She had no interested in being dragged into one of her sister's many plots.

"But he's… Can't you find time for your sister?" Cassiopeia asked with a grimace.

"You can take care of yourself," Katarina replied. "I heard you finally learned how to stab people."

"H-he fell down the stairs," Cassiopeia protested. She glanced away, a clear tell of a lie – a tell so basic that anyone with Cassiopeia's experience would never make it except on purpose.

"Right onto a letter opener," Katarina said. "What a horrible accident."

Cassiopeia shuddered and shrank a little. It was a calculated expression of vulnerability, no doubt planned before she'd even begun the conversation. "Kat, please. I…" Cassiopeia paused. "I don't want to be alone."

Doing her best to ignore her sister's craft, Katarina crossed her arms. "Hire a bodyguard." She missed the days, years ago, when she could speak with her sister without assuming that everything was one deception layered on another. Things had been easier between them then. They'd been closer, more like family.

Shrinking back even more, Cassiopeia hugged herself. "Kat, you're my sister. It's tomorrow, I know you're not busy then. It's only for an afternoon. I hardly know him and I've never been where he wants to go, but I've heard things… Please Kat. "

Cassiopeia was faking everything, of course. She was a supremely confident young woman who could take care of herself. She'd killed the last man who crossed her. Katarina could just imagine Cassiopeia staring disdainfully at the corpse and shuffling away to avoid getting blood on her slippers. Cassiopeia was only trying to guilt trip her sister for some ulterior motive, probably part of a larger plan that didn't even involve Katarina.

But what if she wasn't?

Katarina looked at her sister and, for a moment, she saw a six year old girl, hiding behind her older sister, clutching Katarina's hand as strange men carried a shrouded figure out of their parent's bedroom and down the stairs.

As quickly as the image had come, it was gone.

Katarina let out an angry growl. Being played by Cassiopeia was like having an out of body experience. She could see it happen in slow motion but she couldn't stop it. "Fine," she snapped. Before Cassiopeia could ask for anything more, she yanked the door open and stepped out into the wintry street. Cassiopeia was in the middle of thanking her when she slammed the door shut again.

The chill air calmed her slightly and by the time Katarina reached the military headquarters at the peak of the city, she'd almost forgotten the sting of letting Cassiopeia win.

The practice room of High Command was in the basement, like the rooms for everything else that might involve spilling a little blood. Once she'd turned onto the right hallway, finding her way was as simple as following the sounds of steel on steel, which came from an open door and echoed down the stone corridor. Katarina paused at the threshold, unwilling to step onto the floor with a live match in progress. She was bold, reckless even, but she wasn't stupid.

In the center of the room were two men – Darius and someone who looked a lot like Darius, but slightly smaller and with a laughable mustache. Both of them were using axes and Darius was clearly winning. Around the edges of the chamber, other men sat on wooden benches built into the walls. While there was ample space for more matches, Darius and his opponent were the only ones fighting and all eyes were on them.

Both men were covered in a sheen of sweat and their shoulders rose and fell with every breath.

Katarina leaned up against the doorpost, settling in to watch.

She needn't have bothered. In the blink of an eye, Darius hooked the head of his axe around the shaft of the other man's weapon and then yanked it out of his hands. It fell to the floor with a clatter and Darius calmly brought his blade up to rest on his shoulder.

"I wasn't ready," the smaller man complained. Katarina was inclined to even call his voice a whine.

"I know," Darius said. Without bowing, he turned his back on his opponent and walked over to sit on a bench. "Draven, fight Du Couteau next." He used his head to gesture towards where Katarina stood in the doorway.

"A girl?" the smaller man, presumably Draven, protested. "You want me to fight a girl?"

Katarina herself was less than pleased with the idea. She had no wish to duel Darius' cast off. She held her tongue though, unwilling to back down from the challenge now that it had been presented.

"I don't want you to fight a girl," Darius said. "I want you to lose to a girl."

Draven scowled and retrieved his axe from the floor. "Fine then," he said. "Come on, sugar tits, come lose to Draven."

Katarina hesitated, not because she was unsure of what she was going to do to the scum in front of her, but because she actually couldn't believe what she'd just heard. Sounding out the words syllable by syllable, she repeated, "Sugar tits?"

Draven spun his axe in his hand like a baton. With his other hand, he wiped away the sweat beaded across his brow. "It's a compliment."

Katarina blinked, then narrowed her eyes. Slowly, so that he would see her coming, she walked towards him, drawing her blades. When she saw him raise his axe, she darted forward and slammed the pommel of one of her knives into his fingers, producing a satisfying crack.

Draven howled in pain and his screaming only intensified when Katarina rammed her knee into his crotch.

Draven dropped to the floor.

She was raising her foot to stomp down on his groin when Darius seized her shoulder and yanked her back. "That's enough," he growled.

Katarina pushed Darius' hand away.

No sooner than she'd taken a step toward the man on the floor, Darius had grabbed her shoulder again.

Katarina glared. "I promise I won't neuter him – this time."

Pacified, Darius stepped back.

Katarina knelt down over Draven and set the edge of her knife against his cheek, right under his eye. She gave the blade a little push, just enough to draw blood. "If you ever call me sugar tits again," she began, "I will skin you alive and feed your guts to the dogs. And I'll kill anyone who tries to stop me and I'll do the same to them." Not quite satisfied with her threat, but also not sure what else to say to get her point across, she stood up again and delivered a vicious parting kick to the man's ribs. Since he only moaned a little, she kicked him again before walking away.

When it was clear Katarina was done, Darius bent down and picked Draven up by the back of his jacket and dragged him to the door.

"You wouldn't let her do that, right bro?" Draven wheezed. His eyes were clenched shut in pain.

"Just leave," Darius said as he dropped Draven in the hallway. "Get someone to look at your fingers."

Apparently not entirely devoid of common sense, Draven crawled to his feet and slunk away.

"That's your brother?" Katarina asked, not bothering to check the disbelief in her voice.

Darius glared at the spectators, who all immediately decided they had better places to be and headed for the door. "Yes," he said.

Katarina snorted. "I'm sorry."

"He's family," Darius replied coldly.

Katarina paused, then, "I guess he is."

"You came here to fight," Darius said. It wasn't a question.

"Are you going to oblige me?" Katarina asked.

"Yes," Darius said. He took several steps away from her to set their distance, then hefted his axe.

Unlike his brother, Darius left no easy openings to exploit and unlike many other, lesser, men who used heavy weapons, he was almost as fast as Katarina.

Several times, the two combatants clashed and then retreated, reevaluating.

The one advantage that Katarina had, she decided, was that Darius' style was meant for a man in plate armor and he was currently wearing only cloth. She could see it whenever he dodged or blocked with his axe. He would almost let a blow land, then remember that he wasn't in armor and defend himself at the last moment. It was a testament to his skill that he'd yet to make a fatal mistake.

Trying to capitalize on this weakness, Katarina changed tactics and began to aim blows that she knew his instincts would tell him to ignore. It wasn't ideal, but, eventually, it paid off. Katarina's knife managed to snake past Darius' guard, landing across his forearm, cutting through fabric, and drawing blood.

Darius lowered his axe and backed away.

Content to stop at first blood, Katarina did the same.

"I was wrong about you," Darius said. "I can see why Riven respects you."

Katarina opened her mouth, then hesitated, torn in several directions over what to say in response. "You've seen Riven recently?" she asked.

Darius grunted an affirmative. "She's agreed to face me in the arena."

Katarina scoffed. Fights, and executions, in the arena were what had replaced the Fleshing after the Viscero debacle. Marcus Du Couteau had never been a great supporter of the Fleshing and his distaste for that event had carried over to its successor. As far as Katarina herself was concerned, both were merely displays to distract the discontent and the only difference was that the Fleshing had at least been more exciting, though she was too young to remember it.

Hearing that Riven was planning on participating in the arena gave her pause. The soldier was better than that. Katarina demanded, "Why would she do that?"

Darius turned away and walked over to sit on one of the benches in the empty room. "Why wouldn't she?" he asked.

"Those fights are pointless," Katarina said. "And the men who participate are selling their bodies to the masses."

Darius spat on the stone floor. "Nobles."

Katarina sheathed her blades with more force than was strictly necessary and crossed her arms over her chest. She had won their duel. Darius had no right to disrespect her. "I asked you a question," she said.

"If you want to know why she's doing it, go ask her," Darius replied.

"Why are you doing it?" Katarina pressed. "What do you get out of it?"

Darius turned his head towards Katarina and locked gazes with her. "Only the strong survive," he said. "Strength is power. Some people seem to have forgotten this. They need to be reminded."

"Maybe you should remind your brother then," Katarina said as she headed for the door.

"And you can remind your sister," Darius answered.

"My sister can take care of herself," Katarina insisted, her voice betraying none of her doubts.

"And so can my brother," Darius said. "At least he tries."

Halfway across the threshold, Katarina paused. "When are you fighting?"

"Tomorrow. The third round after the executions."

Katarina nodded, more to herself than to Darius, and left. Tomorrow.

* * *

A/N: Uhg. I believe I shall not soon again separate Katarina from her Riven. Because writing Kat without Riven is a pain. She reminds me of an eight year old after their favorite toy has been confiscated and I did not enjoy writing this chapter at all, not one bit, nopenoepnope not fun at all. but my beta readers told me it was okay so i posted it. im just glad this chapter is over.

Also, side note - "A Summoner" left a lovely guest review to which I cannot reply because it was a guest review. In this review was raised the issue of the title and its appropriateness to the fic outside of the first chapter. I have no plans on changing the title of the fic because I am terrible at naming things. You may also have noticed that I am terrible at writing summaries. Also, at this point, chapters 3-6 on my computer are named "burials ch x" (chapter one is named "kat riven sion stuff v3" and I have so many files in my fanfic folder that I don't actually know anymore which one is chapter two of this fic). All this is to say that I'm just leaving this as "Burials" because I'm lazy and I've gotten used to calling it either "Burials" or "that kat/riven thing im writing." Who knows, maybe at some point someone will get buried for the sole purpose of making the title relevant again.

Another side note, to the guest reviewer who guessed that Riven's commander is Urgot... Riven's commander was Sion. The first chapter of this fic is based around Sion's lore and the old Katarina lore where she recovers Sion's remains from the Dauntless Vanguard and Garen. I can see how it might have been confusing though, if you haven't sat down and read every lore version of every champion... because only crazy people do that... *looks around nervously*


	7. Burials: Chapter 7

A/N: Thank you to Deixis and Balabalabagan for being my beta readers and generally putting up with me.

Also, thank you to all of you for reading this.

* * *

Standing awkwardly in front of her sister, at Cassiopeia's very doorstep even, Katarina cleared her throat. "I can't come with you this afternoon," she said.

Wearing an elegant blue-green draped dress that went almost to her ankles and exposed quite a bit of cleavage, generally looking perfectly put together without a hair out of place, Cassiopeia visibly deflated. Katarina tried not to read into it too much. If she did, she knew she'd end up thinking herself in circles, trying to determine what was truth and what was artifice. "But you said you would," Cassiopeia said.

Katarina shrugged. "Something came up."

"What came up?" Cassiopeia asked. There was the slightest hint of a whine in her voice.

Katarina pursed her lips. If Cassiopeia didn't already know, she wasn't going to tell her. It would only give her sister a foothold. "Something."

"Kat, you-

"Take Talon," Katarina said, cutting her sister off. "I'm busy."

"Can't you stay a few rounds?" Cassiopeia asked. "Long enough to keep him polite?"

Against her better judgment, Katarina asked, "Rounds? Where are you going?"

Cassiopeia's reply was slow, like she thought Katarina would disapprove. Or like she wanted Katarina to think that she thought Katarina would disapprove. Or both. "The arena," she said. "My-my admirer's brother is fighting today."

There were no such things as coincidences in the Du Couteau line of work. Katarina's stomach twisted, but she did her best to keep her wariness from her face. Not that it really mattered, Cassiopeia probably picked up on it anyway. "Fine," she said, already making plans to cut off the hands of Darius' scum of a younger brother. "I'll go."

It didn't hurt that she'd intended to go on her own regardless.

Cassiopeia brightened and Katarina worked hard not to smile. "We're leaving at noon," the younger Du Couteau said. She paused, then, "I'd tell you to wear something nice, but you'll wear your normal clothes anyway."

So Cassiopeia wanted to play that game again? Fine. Katarina glared at her sister, then looked down at her outfit pointedly. She already knew what she had on. Like nearly every other day, she was wearing close-fitting black leather. Her pants were as nondescript as possible and her long-sleeved jacket, cut in a style similar to a military uniform, let her blend in nearly anywhere in the city. It was practical for her line of work and, at least in the winter, not uncomfortable. "There's nothing wrong with my clothes," she said defensively.

"They're so plain," Cassiopeia said, waving a dismissive hand. "You're my sister, you could be beautiful. But between the knives and the terrible fashion decisions…" She reached out and poked at Katarina's leather clad stomach. "You'd be much more attractive if you showed some skin."

Katarina pulled back a little, out of her sister's reach and scowled. "My clothes are work clothes," she said.

"But you wear them every day," Cassiopeia complained.

"Every day is a work day," Katarina replied. "Why are you bringing this up?" she asked. "I'm about to do you a favor. Can't you just leave well enough alone?"

Cassiopeia sniffed. "And I'm trying to do a favor for you."

Katarina turned her back on the younger, more fashion-conscious woman. "I'll see you at noon," she grumbled as she walked back to her rooms down the hall.

Back at her desk though, Katarina found she couldn't focus on her work. The words on the pages seemed to blur together and move as she stared at them.

Perhaps this was what reading felt like for Riven.

As she gazed off into space, Katarina's mind wandered, first back to the long afternoons she'd spent working with the soldier, and then forward to whatever the rest of the day held.

Idly, she tapped a pen against the wood surface of her desk.

Riven would fight Darius. And Riven would win. Riven had beaten Katarina, though Katarina was not keen to admit it even to herself weeks later, and Katarina had beaten Darius. So Riven would beat Darius too.

The fight wouldn't even be interesting.

She was probably wasting her time even going to watch.

And then there was Cassiopeia.

Katarina pinched the bridge of her nose.

What was Cassiopeia doing hanging around Darius' younger brother? Did their father have some designs for the young general? Marcus Du Couteau himself had said very little about Darius when he first arrived on the scene of High Command, a savage brute drenched in the blood of Noxian nobility – some of them men whom Katarina had grown up with, though no one she'd been overly fond of. Many of the surviving noble generals detested him for his culling and, though Katarina was not interested in politics, Darius had become something of a controversy within High Command. Knowing her father though, Katarina doubted he'd count any of those deaths against Darius' usefulness as a pawn.

Perhaps Cassiopeia's feigned interest in Draven was merely an investment in a future where Darius continued his ascendancy.

Generally, Noxians were not religious. Gods were the dreams of the weak. Only people who weren't strong enough to make their own way would pray to some abstract idea for aid. Other cities had gods. Noxus did not.

But if Noxus did have gods, Katarina thought, she would be praying to them right that moment. She'd be praying that her sister was not actually interested in Draven.

It was such a preposterous notion that she knew she shouldn't be giving it any mind.

Cassiopeia had standards, surely.

But it was still frightening.

A sign of how entirely unfocused she was, Katarina spent the rest of her morning trying not to imagine what her sister's children would look like if Draven were the father. For some reason, she couldn't picture them without his utterly ridiculous mustache.

When noon finally came, she rose from her desk, still wearing the clothes Cassiopeia had complained about, and headed downstairs, where her sister was already waiting for her in the entrance hall.

And beside Cassiopeia stood none other than Draven.

Katarina glared at him as she walked to the coatroom, and she glared at him as she came back with her coat.

"Katarina, this is Draven," Cassiopeia said. "Draven, this is my sister Katarina."

Draven, in a manner that lacked any semblance of subtlety, edged to put Cassiopeia in between himself and the elder of the Du Couteau siblings.

Cassiopeia looked from her date to her sister and narrowed her eyes. "Have you two met?" she asked.

Katarina scowled. "Yes." She stepped around her sister and leaned forward a little so that she was directly in Draven's face. Katarina was perhaps half an inch taller than Draven, but she could have been half a foot shorter and still towered over him. "Yesterday," she began, pitching her voice as low and threatening as she could manage, "I promised your brother I wouldn't neuter you. I didn't say anything about today. Keep your hands to yourself. Understand?"

Draven's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He nodded.

Katarina turned towards the door. "Let's go then."

The walk to the arena was long and quiet. Even if the snowbanks on either side of the road didn't mute most sounds, Draven seemed unwilling to talk and Katarina and Cassiopeia had nothing to say to one another in his presence.

The coliseum in which the fights were held was located at the foot of the mountain where the residents were still middle class but the poorer districts weren't too far away. It was a massive open-air oval building, made of arches stacked on arches, larger even than the palace of High Command, and it rose some seven or eight stories above the ground. Its exact date of construction had probably been mentioned in one of the many lessons Katarina had been forced into as a child and then promptly forgotten, but she thought she recalled it being from the same era as most of the monumental constructions, the Du Couteau manor included, near the peak of the mountain.

Twenty or so years ago it had hosted the Fleshing, but the great slave revolt surrounding the escape of Viscero with the aid of Jarvan II had convinced those in power a different structure of entertainment was needed. The schedule of executions and fights that had replaced the Fleshing had been a staple of Noxian life ever since.

Katarina herself had never been inside the building. Her work had never brought her there and she'd no reason to go of her own accord. It seemed her sister, on the other hand, had attended before, despite her claims to the contrary the previous day, as she lead their party to a private box only a few feet above the arena's sand-strewn stage and immediately adjacent. Only a low stone wall separated them from the events. Katarina noted with a small amount of pride that her family name was carved into that stone rail. The box had probably belonged to them for generations.

The three of them sat down on dark stone benches – Cassiopeia and Draven on one side of the box, and Katarina on the other. Of course, Cassiopeia sat between her sister and Draven.

All around them was the constant murmuring roar of the massive audience that the spectacles, held only once every two weeks or so during the winter, and even more infrequently in the summer, attracted. Katarina glanced up to see what looked to be all of Noxus, bundled up in thick coats, perched on benches above her, farther away from the stage. Though there was snow on the ground and ice in the shadows, no one seemed the least deterred by the weather.

When the noise of the crowd intensified, Katarina stopped people watching and looked down at the field.

Prisoners, chained criminals all, were being lead in.

When it came to law, Noxus was not Demacia, not by any stretch of the imagination. In Demacia, theft was a crime. In Noxus, theft was what happened when someone was too weak to protect their property. Among the uncivilized lower classes, it made for a chaotic, harrowing, and sometimes short existence. The general solution most people resorted to was strength in numbers and thus a sort of law was established.

The criminals being lead out were just men and women who hadn't been strong enough to protect themselves after trying to prey on someone else. Or maybe they'd never tried to prey on anyone. Maybe they were just weak. It didn't matter.

Behind them staggered a figure Katarina instantly recognized. Anyone who'd seen Urgot once would recognize him. They might even have nightmares for the rest of their lives. His legs could hardly support him, so metal bars were grafted into his thighs as extra legs to prop up his ponderous weight. Where his hands used to be, surgeons had affixed massive cleavers.

Years ago, the story went, Urgot had been the finest Noxian soldier in the war against Demacia. He'd been first to charge, last to retreat, and every time he left a battlefield, he was covered in blood, that of his enemy's, and his own. But eventually his body had broken down under so much abuse and now, for all his former strength, he was nothing more than a half-dead husk.

Instead of giving him the deserved mercy of death, High Command appointed him High Executioner and so it was that he was limping after bound prisoners, any of whom could easily overpower him if unchained, to butcher them like livestock.

Katarina scoffed.

"What's so funny?" Cassiopeia asked, raising her voice to be heard over the screams of the dying.

Katarina waved at the stage where the sand was rapidly turning into muddy crimson. "This is a joke," she said. "Urgot should be in the ground, not falling cleavers-first onto men tied up so they can't accidently put him out of his misery."

Cassiopeia gazed out to where the slaughter continued. "He is rather decrepit," she observed.

"I could do it," Draven said. He leaned a little towards Cassiopeia though, Katarina was pleased to see, he didn't move his hands. "I could kill them and make it flashy."

"Of course you could," Katarina said. "They're tied up."

Draven scowled, but didn't challenge her.

Focusing her attention back on the stage where some attendants were helping Urgot limp back off the field and others were pushing the dead bodies to the side, Katarina leaned forward so she could rest her elbows on the stone rail.

Draven was sufficiently cowed and she had two fights to sit through before anything she remotely cared about happened.

The first fight was a team match, five men against five men. It could have been interesting, Katarina supposed, had all of the losing combatants not surrendered as soon as it became clear they were losing so badly their lives were in danger. One team won and the other team lost and no one was seriously injured and it was boring.

The next fight was a duel, which meant it should have been more intense, but it wasn't. Again, as soon as one man realized he was defeated, he yielded and his opponent backed away, satisfied.

It was a pity that, even in Noxus, men valued their lives more than their pride.

By the time the third round arrived, Katarina was practically yawning, but, as soon as she saw Darius enter from the far end of the field as a distant announcer called his name and title, she perked up.

Somewhere off her side, she heard Draven inform her sister, "Look, she's paying attention again. It's probably because she saw my brother. That's him, over there, the big guy with the big axe."

Cassiopeia let out a short, ladylike laugh. "I doubt she's interested in your brother," the younger Du Couteau said. "I think Riven's more her type."

Katarina's head snapped around. "What."

"What?" Cassiopeia asked innocently. "She's not?"

Katarina was about to protest and argue with her sister, without thinking, purely on principle, but the words died in her throat as, from the corner of her eye, she saw the soldier in question appear.

Riven wore the same worn armor she'd used when she'd fought Katarina, but someone had polished the metal so that it caught the winter light and gleamed beneath the sun. Her massive sword rested lazily on her shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all. A thin breeze drifted through the arena and ruffled her short white hair.

Riven looked up. Red eyes passed over the cheering crowds, taking in all the sights of the arena from the rare perspective of center stage.

Katarina thought Riven wouldn't notice her, overwhelming as the multitude of the audience was, but Riven paused as her gaze swept past the Du Couteau box, so close to the field.

Their eyes met and Katarina's heart skipped a beat.

For a moment, Riven's face remained in its usual stoic and unreadable state, but then, slowly, she grinned.

Katarina felt the smallest of smiles spread across her own face in return.

Riven broke their eye contact and turned to face Darius, who was standing in the bloody sand several yards away, patiently waiting.

She swung her sword down from her shoulder and made a few experimental swings, testing her arm, testing her range, warming up. When she was satisfied, she nodded to her opponent and stepped forward.

At first, both fighters tried to circle one another, but the wet sand slowed their steps and more than once they stumbled when the muddy ground didn't release them as quickly as they'd planned. As if by mutual agreement, their footwork slowed to a near stop, both preferring to ground themselves instead of risk tripping. Their stillness, in turn, had a profound effect on the crowd. For the first time since Katarina had entered the building, it was almost quiet.

Darius struck first.

He stepped forward and swung his axe, slower than Katarina remembered him moving. He was only trying to gauge Riven's reaction.

The white-haired woman, in turn, stepped back but raised her sword so that Darius' axe slammed into the flat of her blade near the tip, knocking it aside easily. She let her weapon move with the momentum so that the hilt flowed into her other hand. Her transition from wielding her sword with one hand to wielding it with two was seamless.

Against knives, spears, even another sword of similar size, Riven had the strength to parry with only one hand. Against a crushing weapon like an axe, however, she needed both. She sacrificed nothing in the change of strategy because if she tried to use her off hand to parry as she'd done against Katarina, her arm might break.

Riven was monstrously strong, but so was Darius.

The next time they clashed, it was in earnest. Katarina thought she recognized some of the forms Riven had been trying to teach her as the soldier fought, but Riven went through them with such speed and grace that they weren't forms anymore, just movements that were an extension of herself.

Fighting against Riven was exhilarating, but so was simply watching her.

Katarina wasn't sure what the action had quite been, but suddenly Darius was backing away. He raised one hand and wiped at his cheek, leaving a smear of crimson behind. He looked down at his fingers.

All around, the crowd roared.

Shoulders rising and falling with her heavy breathing, Riven stood some distance away, still in a guard position, still ready.

Katarina leaned forward in her seat.

Would the fight end here, at first blood, as so many duels did?

Surely not. Not in front of so many spectators. Darius was a brute, but he was a prideful brute and he had honor. He wouldn't back down at a little scratch. Katarina knew from experience that, if Riven were in his position, she wouldn't admit defeat either.

Darius raised his axe once more and charged, feet kicking up clods of wet sand as he ran.

Riven met him head on and, in Katarina's ears, the clash of steel on steel drowned out the screaming crowd.

If the combatants had been good before, they were magnificent now. Any restraint they'd shown previously was gone. When Darius swung his axe, it was with the intention to decapitate, and Riven displayed no less ferocity.

In the brief moments when their movement slowed enough they could be clearly seen, their armor was covered in deep dents and long scores scraped through the metal.

Blood hit the sand, again and again, like a light rain, but it wasn't clear whose it was.

Without quite remembering when it happened, Katarina found herself standing at the rail, leaning toward the arena, stretching to be closer. What she'd give to be in Darius' place…

Down on the arena floor, it was clear the battle was taking its toll on its participants. Both Riven and Darius, covered in their own blood, had slowed. Footwork that had once been merely impeded by the wet sand was now sluggish as heavy feet pounded against the earth.

Darius swung.

Riven stepped back, but left her sword out, so that as the blade of her opponent's axe passed, she could hook her own weapon behind the axe's head and yank it forward. Caught by the trick, Darius went stumbling towards Riven, who released her sword and brought it up for a finishing strike.

The lieutenant general threw himself out of the way and missed death by a hair's breadth.

Having failed in her blow, it was now Riven who stumbled, severely overbalanced from committing so much to what she'd hoped would end the duel. While she desperately tried to recover, Darius stepped back, and then he jumped up.

Half-kneeling, Riven had just enough time to look up, to bring her sword up, to use one hand to brace against the flat of her blade, to try to parry.

Darius' axe smashed into Riven's sword, snapping the blade in two.


	8. Burials: Chapter 8

A/N: Thank you so much to Deixis for being my beta reader and by "beta reader" I mean "the guy who put up with me for hours and hours and hours as I agonized over, like, one and a half scenes while steering me in (hopefully) the right direction."

And, as always, thank you to everyone reading! Hope you enjoy this.

* * *

Katarina stood with her arms crossed, her back against the cold stone wall of the arena basement and her eyes fixed on the closed door across the hall from her. In the windowless corridor, lit only by harsh hextech bulbs, it was impossible to tell time precisely, but she felt like she'd been there for an hours.

Restless, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to find a comfortable position.

Surely the door would open soon. Surely there would be news, some news, any news, soon.

Katarina slid her back down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, still staring at the door. It was a wood door, solid, soundproof, bound with iron. It looked old. Maybe it was even original to the building.

Katarina was not a patient person. Inaction was anathema to her. Everything about staying still felt wrong. More than once she'd almost botched an assignment because she couldn't stand to wait for her mark.

And yet, here she was, staring at a door, waiting for Riven – for the second time in less than a week.

Why? She wasn't entirely sure how to put it into words. Because she could, she supposed.

Katarina closed her eyes.

In her mind, she could still see Darius' axe cleaving through Riven's sword and burying itself in the soldier's chest. She could still hear the roar of the crowd, could hear Draven jumping up next to her and cheering for his brother, could imagine the sound of steel rending steel and then flesh as well. She could imagine the sound of ribs shattering. She'd heard it often enough before. She'd been the cause of it before.

She'd never stopped to think that the sound could ever be unwelcome.

Everything lay outside of her control.

It was terrifying.

Again and again the memory of Darius' axe coming down replayed in her head. Again and again she watched-

The thud of heavy boots on stone yanked Katarina out of her thoughts.

She opened her eyes.

Darius, stinking of sweat and still wearing his bloodied armor, towered over her. He glanced at the door, then he looked down. "Nothing?" he asked.

Katarina shook her head.

Darius made a deep rumbling noise in the back of his throat, then sat down beside the assassin.

Though she didn't much care for the man, Katarina was desperate for something to distract her. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

The general turned to look at Katarina with steely eyes. "I'm waiting," he said.

Katarina made a point of staring at the door instead of the man beside her. "No news is good news," she replied.

Darius grunted. Katarina took that as some sort of agreement and also a sign that he wanted no part in conversation. Unfortunately for him, the only thing that had changed in that hallway in hours was his arrival, and Katarina couldn't just continue to sit idle, slowly losing her mind. "You didn't actually win," she said.

"No," Darius agreed, "I didn't. Her sword broke. We proved nothing."

Katarina scowled. She didn't want his agreement.

"It would be a shame if she dies," Darius said.

"She's not going to die," Katarina snapped.

"Did they tell you that?" Darius asked. He didn't sound like he was challenging her assertion, merely asking a simple question.

Katarina paused. The door had been shut since she'd arrived. "They didn't tell me anything," she said.

Darius let out a great sigh. His shoulders, his entire torso even, rose and fell with the exhalation. He tipped his head back so that it rested against the stone wall.

Out of habit, Katarina drew a knife and began to fiddle with it. She twisted the blade this way and that, spinning it in her hands, watching the light reflecting on the polished steel. Beside her, she heard Darius shift his weight. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him look down at her weapon as it turned.

"I can juggle them too," Katarina said dryly.

Darius snorted. "My brother can juggle axes," he said. "It makes me nervous. He's going to slip and cut his arm off. Or worse."

"Why would anyone juggle axes?" Katarina asked incredulously.

"Why would anyone juggle knives?" Darius replied.

Katarina was still coming up with a defense of her skill when the door opened. Four crimson robed summoners, their arms splattered with blood up to the elbow, emerged. Before the first had gotten both feet out into the hallway, Katarina was on her feet and aggressively encroaching on the man's personal space. "Well?" she demanded.

The summoner, shorter than Katarina by nearly a head, drew himself up imperiously. "Mind your tongue, girl," he said.

Katarina tightened her grip on her knife, but Darius' hand on her shoulder stopped her before she went any further. "How is she?" he asked.

The summoner edged away from Katarina and addressed only Darius, albeit coldly. "She'll live," he said. "Probably. You only cut through four of her ribs and her sternum, among other things."

Already tired of the conversation, Katarina pulled away from Darius and moved to shove past the summoners and into the room beyond. She needed to see for herself.

She didn't even make it past the threshold of the door before the lead summoner grabbed her arm tightly to restrain her.

"Absolutely not," the man said.

Katarina tried to shake him loose, but he wouldn't let go. "Get your hand off me before I take it off," she growled. She tightened her grip on her knife further, til her knuckles went white, then relaxed again, preparing to move. She did not make idle threats.

The summoner didn't raise his voice, but anger was still palpable in his tone. "We did not slave away for hours saving her life only for you savages to jeopardize that," he hissed. "She is our responsibility and she needs undisturbed rest. Leave." Though the other three summoners looked hesitant to put themselves in Katarina's path, they still moved behind their leader to block the doorway.

"Du Couteau," Darius rumbled, "If the summoners say she needs rest, she needs rest."

Katarina yanked her arm back from the summoner. "So when will she be done needing rest?"

"When she's done," the summoner answered. Behind him, one of his comrades shut the door. Their leader made a small gesture, and the group departed down the corridor. As soon as they'd rounded the corner, Katarina sheathed her knife and reached for the door again.

"Du Couteau," Darius said with warning in his voice.

"I won't disturb her," Katarina replied.

As quietly as she could, she pushed the door open and stepped into the silent chamber beyond, shutting the door behind her. As she stepped within, she nearly gagged at the overwhelming stench of acrid magic-laced air mixed with old blood and death and decay. From sconces all along the walls, blue-white hextech lamps cast a sickly pallor over everything and buzzed unpleasantly.

Riven lay on a stone slab in the center of the room.

At the foot of the table, the remains of her armor sat in a heap. The cuirass, which had no doubt saved her, was bent backwards beyond repair where Darius' axe had smashed down onto the thick steel with all his weight behind it. At the lowest part of the dent, the armor was torn and thick clotted blood stuck to the edges of the gash.

On the table, the soldier's ruined shirt spread beneath her. The summoners had cut it off to access the wound and they'd left it where it fell.

Riven's skin, what little of it that wasn't bruised black or covered with brown dried blood, was pale, matching her hair, almost. Her chest was seemingly still, corpselike. A great raised scar ran from her right collarbone, down between her breasts, across her abdomen, all the way to her left hip, ending just above the edge of her pants.

Katarina went to stand by the table and looked down.

The soldier's red eyes were closed and there was no flicker of motion beneath her eyelids.

Katarina's gaze drifted, following the line of Riven's neck down to the peak of the scar. Slowly, she reached out and brushed a few flakes of dried blood away from the marred skin beneath. Careful not to disturb the soldier, she let two fingers rest lightly on the woman's prone form. The ragged remnant of the wound was smooth to the touch.

Gently, Katarina's fingertips slid down, ghosting over cold skin, until they settled between Riven's breasts, just above the lowest point of the sternum. She kept them there for a moment, frozen, waiting.

There.

Movement.

The rise and fall of the soldier's chest.

The beat of a heart.

A smile pulled at the corners of Katarina's lips.

For a time, she did not move, merely stood still and relished the life beneath her fingers. Always she watched the soldier's face for some flicker of consciousness.

Nothing.

More times than Katarina could count, she had slit the throats of sleeping soldiers. None of them had ever been sleeping so deeply as Riven.

She could do anything, anything at all, and Riven would not stir.

But where was the fun in that?

Her smile widened.

Watching Riven bleed, unresponsive and cold, would be one thing. Watching Riven bleed while the soldier clutched at the wound, crawled across the floor, desperately clung to life – that would be something else entirely.

Katarina blinked.

She shook her head, driving the thoughts away.

She'd just spent hours sitting, hoping, not quite praying, that Riven would live. Why was she thinking about putting the soldier in the grave herself?

Reluctantly, she stepped back, away from the slab and the battered body lying on it.

How long would Riven remain still?

Katarina turned and stalked back to the corridor.

In the hallway, Darius was waiting. When Katarina had shut the door behind her, he spoke. "I need to retrieve my brother from your sister's clutches." His voice betrayed nothing.

"How does this concern me?" Katarina snapped.

Darius reached down to his belt and produced a heavy purse, which he held out.

Katarina stared at it and did not move to take it. Uncomfortable, she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

"The prize money," Darius rumbled. "Give it to her. I didn't win. She needs a new sword."

Still, Katarina didn't reach out. "She won't want it," she said. "She probably won't take it."

Darius shook his head. "Not from me. Maybe from you. You're a friend to her." Instead of waiting for Katarina to accept the purse, Darius tossed the satchel towards her. Instinctively, she caught it. Before the assassin could try to give it back, the general had turned his back to her and was headed down the corridor.

Katarina grimaced and pocketed the money. Like any good commander, it seemed Darius excelled at assigning responsibility and being deaf to reason. She shot one last parting glance at the closed door, then went to follow the him through the labyrinthine depths of the arena. She agreed with Darius on one thing: Draven had been near Cassiopeia unattended for long enough.

She didn't mind, either, that every step she took through the tunnels took her one step farther away from Riven's body. She had felt something standing there over the soldier, something that she couldn't name and that she didn't understand. Unformed whispers of thoughts swirled in her head.

When Katarina finally reached her sister, Darius and Draven were already an appreciable distance away, headed back to whatever place they called home. Cassiopeia, admirer having been dismissed, was flirting with some inconsequential member of the lesser nobility. It never ceased to amaze the elder Du Couteau how her sister managed to produce thralls out of seemingly thin air at the drop of a hat.

Ignoring Cassiopeia's target, Katarina grabbed her sister by the elbow and growled, "We're going now."

As Katarina dragged her away, Cassiopeia bid a hasty farewell to the young woman she'd been speaking to, complete with a promise to drop by for lunch at a later date. When they'd made it out of sight, Cassiopeia shook her sister off and glared. "You didn't have to be rude."

"You don't have to s-

"Don't finish that sentence," Cassiopeia hissed.

Katarina let out a very Darius-like grunt.

"Anyone can be useful," Cassiopeia said. "Next week, a month from now, a decade from now. You met Riven half a year ago. What if you'd been less polite then?"

"I wasn't polite then," Katarina retorted. Truth be told, she hardly remembered meeting Riven. If it hadn't been for the woman's sword, Katarina would probably have forgotten her entirely.

"You're lucky," the younger Du Couteau began, "That Riven has incredibly thick skin and the patience of a glacier." She paused. "And a thick skull too, apparently."

"Ribs," Katarina corrected, remembering the look of the body on the table and the feel of it under her fingers. "Her head was fine."

"Hm. All medical summoners are misanthropes. I didn't bother asking," Cassiopeia said. "It was enough to know she survived."

Katarina shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. One hand touched the purse Darius had handed her. "Why do you care about Riven?" she asked.

"I don't care about her," Cassiopeia replied, "You do."

Katarina moved her head to stare at the younger woman as they walked the dark, snow-covered streets of Noxus. Though she briefly entertained the thought of denying it, Katarina knew she'd never win that argument. It was possible that, perhaps, her sister might even be right. "How do you know?" she asked.

"You didn't throw her out that first day she came to the mansion," Cassiopeia answered.

"I was being polite," Katarina said.

"And then you took her to your rooms," Cassiopeia continued, "Did absolutely nothing interesting, and proceeded to invite her back. With your self-awareness, I'm shocked you can even recognize yourself in a mirror."

To this, Katarina said nothing.

Cassiopeia waited for a response, just long enough to be polite, and then pressed, "So what will you do now?"

The redhead scowled. Her sister's machinations were finally coming to light, but only because Cassiopeia had decided to reveal them. "You told father I was wasting my time with her, didn't you," Katarina said. It wasn't a question.

"Those were not the words I used," Cassiopeia replied. She paused, then, "So what will you do now?"

Katarina hesitated, thinking. Part of her wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Another part of her knew that, in her own way, Cassiopeia was trying to help. Whom she was trying to help was not entirely clear. "Go sword shopping, I suppose," Katarina finally said.

For a while, they walked in silence, side by side, up the mountain. Far above, the stars shone out from the inky black sky. The moon, a slim crescent, had risen some time ago, and was visible on the horizon above the Ironspike Mountains in the distance. Now that they'd gone some distance from the arena, there were few men still out on the lamp-lit streets.

"What do you want?" Cassiopeia asked, breaking the silence.

Katarina exhaled forcefully. "You seem to know. Why don't you tell me?"

Like a petulant child, Cassiopeia shot back, "I asked first."

Katarina glanced over at her companion. She saw a strange young woman, beautiful, capable, confident – and distant. But, for once, she didn't feel distant. She felt like the sister Katarina had known for as long as she could remember.

It felt nice.

Katarina sighed. "I'm not sure," she said.

Cassiopeia let out a most unlady-like snort. "In all my twenty years, you have never once not known what you wanted."

Katarina frowned and looked down at her feet. Hands still jammed in her pockets, she began to kick the snow as she walked. "I want Riven," she said. "But…"

"But what?" Cassiopeia asked.

If it weren't so cold, Katarina would have pulled a hand out of her pocket and grabbed the hilt of one of her knives, just to hold it. Frustration evident in her tone, she tried to explain, "But it's not how I usually want people."

"What do you find so confusing?" Cassiopeia prodded.

Katarina growled. She didn't like her younger sister talking down to her. "What do you think?" she snapped.

"I'm not you," said Cassiopeia. "Thank goodness," she added.

Knowing full well the futility of fighting back, Katarina shut her mouth and quickened her pace through the snow. She had no room in her life for self-contemplation.

"Well?" asked Cassiopeia, unrelenting.

"What do you care?" Katarina replied, anger creeping into her voice.

"Pure self-interest," Cassiopeia said. "My life is easier when you're not brooding."

Katarina frowned. She knew her sister's words were a lie, and that Cassiopeia knew that Katarina knew they were a lie. Or maybe she merely hoped. There was no reason to bring attention to it though. In her pockets, she curled her hands into fists.

"It might help if you start with how you usually want people," Cassiopeia volunteered. Her advice was unasked for, and she was no doubt aware of this but didn't care.

Katarina looked up towards the top of the mountain. They had a ways to go. There was no escaping Cassiopeia. Reluctant, she began, "When I want people, I take them. And then it's over." She took a deep breath. "I want Riven." She paused again, forcing all her feelings from the previous hours into a single sentence. "But I don't want her to leave, and…"

Katarina trailed off and frowned, considering her words.

Deep in her mind, in the ocean of her thoughts, she could still feel her killer instinct, keen and sharper than her best knife, poised to take the soldier's life. She'd relied on that instinct, on her own bloodlust, her entire life. Never before had it felt so foreign to her. Of all this, however, she said nothing. Perhaps her sister, who could justly claim to know Katarina better than anyone else, including Katarina, already knew and understood. But if she didn't, Katarina refused to bring it up.

"And that's strange," Katarina finished.

Cassiopeia started from the beginning. "You think you could just take her?"

For a moment, Katarina recalled Riven's prone form on that table, half-dead and defenseless. The memory of Riven's head crashing into her own and the world going dark quickly replaced that thought. "No," she said reluctantly.

"That's what I thought," Cassiopeia said.

Katarina glared at her sister.

"Has it occurred to you," Cassiopeia began, "That if you don't want Riven to leave, and Riven doesn't want to leave, she won't leave?"

Katarina had nothing to say to that because, truthfully, it had not occurred to her. But it was so obviously simple she was disinclined to admit her oversight. "What if Riven wants to leave?" she asked.

"Then you have to make her want to stay," Cassiopeia answered. "And, being my sister, I'd hope you can manage."

There it was again, that infuriating condescension. "Of course I can," Katarina said automatically. She hoped Cassiopeia wouldn't notice the lack of conviction in her words or that her sister would at least choose not to comment on it.

"You don't sound so sure," the younger Du Couteau said.

Mentally, Katarina swore.

"Why aren't you sure?" Cassiopeia asked.

Sometimes it pained Katarina that stabbing family was unacceptable behavior. Again, she looked up towards the top of the mountain. They seemed no closer to home than the last time she'd checked. Katarina grit her teeth. "What if I can't?"

"Then you won't be losing anything you wouldn't be losing otherwise," Cassiopeia said.

"How long have you been plotting all this?" Katarina asked.

Cassiopeia didn't answer her question. Instead, she changed the subject. "Go sword shopping tomorrow," she said. "Or the day after, or the day after that, so long as you're done before my solstice gathering next week. Your presence is expected, of course."

Katarina shuddered. She hated her sister's parties almost as much as Talon did. Talon, at least, had the good fortune of never being invited. "I was planning on avoiding that," she said.

"Riven fighting Darius, having her sword break, and then surviving means she's about to be one of the most popular soldiers in Noxus," Cassiopeia said. "Which means I need her at my event. And that means that I need you there, or she'll have no reason to come."

Katarina scowled. "Has this entire conversation all been about getting a mutual acquaintance to come to your party?" she asked. "Was all of this just you making me want to help you?" She chose not to believe it, but doubt gnawed at her.

Cassiopeia shrugged. "You know how I am."

* * *

A/N: Right then. Well. FYI, Darius is one of my favorite top laners to play so there was really only one way that fight from the last chapter was ever going to end. :P  
But... It is rather odd for me to think about how it actually feels moving from one chapter to the next in this story, because my being the author prevents me from actually experiencing cliffhangers or between-chapter transitions (I also don't always notice when characters aren't being completely transparent or entirely opaque and other things of that nature). I process this story rather differently from all of you by virtue of being in the driver's seat, so it's always interesting to read reviews and figure out what's actually going on in these chapters.


	9. Burials: Chapter 9

A/N: Thank you to Deixis and Balabalabagan for doing wonderful beta reader things.

And thanks to all you reader-folk.

* * *

The sun was barely above the horizon when Katarina, smile on her face, began banging on Talon's door.

Thud, thud, thud – pause – thud, thud, thud – pause, and again, and again, and again until her disgruntled foster sibling finally opened the door, almost receiving a blow to the face for his trouble when she failed to stop pounding.

"What?" Talon snapped, meeting her smile with suspicion and annoyance. There were dark circles under his eyes and his scowl rivaled Cassiopeia's best in its radiant anger. Based on his usual habits, Katarina guessed that he'd only gone to bed an hour, maybe two hours, ago. Too bad for him.

"Come," was all Katarina said. She was already clad in her work clothes. Her various knives were secured in their places and she was ready to go out. She was in a good mood. For what seemed like the first time in weeks she had a goal and a plan and she could actually do something. She might even say that she was excited.

"Go away," Talon grunted. He reached for his door to slam it shut.

Before he could escape, Katarina thrust her foot out, preventing the door from closing. "No," she said. "Come."

Talon did the impossible and scowled harder. He stepped around his door and put his back against the wood to shove it closed. "No," he said.

Before he could try to overpower her, Katarina slipped out of the hallway and into Talon's sitting room. She strolled over to his couch and flopped down as he glared. "I'm going shopping," she said. "You're coming with me. Get dressed." Smoothly, she drew one of her knives and began to pick her fingernails with it. "I'll wait."

Slouching and quite aware that her entrance meant he'd lost, Talon retreated to his bedroom. "You only want me to carry your bags," he grumbled. Without bothering to close the door, he began to change out of his pajamas and into his own work clothes.

Katarina didn't bother feigning sincerity as she replied, "No, I need your opinions."

Over in his room, Talon snorted disbelievingly.

After spending the previous day with her sister, being around Talon felt like a breath of fresh air to the eldest Du Couteau child. When she fought with her sister, Katarina sometimes recalled their childhood but she never felt entirely at ease. When she argued with Talon, they bickered about the smallest things, without layers of deceit smothering everything. It was refreshing, to say the least. It also helped that, unlike when she argued with Cassiopeia, Katarina felt she could actually win.

Once her brother finally emerged, dressed in his usual purple and black, Katarina rose and, without sparing her the man a glance, headed for the door. Though she couldn't hear his footsteps, she knew Talon was following her.

"So what are you buying?" Talon asked bitterly. "Tight leather pants? Shoes?"

Katarina let out an amused chuckle, then replied, "Sword shopping."

"Sword shopping," Talon repeated. "Really. You've decided you're tired of stabbing your targets and want to take up decapitation instead? And you couldn't do this at a reasonable hour?"

"It's not for me," Katarina answered.

Talon didn't say anything, just waited for her to elaborate.

Knowing exactly what he was doing, Katarina smiled and didn't say anything either.

They made it out the front door, all the way down the mountain, and were packed in among the jam of people in the main market before Talon caved.

"Why are you sword shopping?" he asked, dodging out of the way of a speeding cart. Compared to when they'd left the house, he was noticeably less hostile, though he was still a far cry from happy.

Katarina smirked. "Because," she said.

Talon sighed loudly but didn't press. Idly, he began to toss a bright green coin purse through the air from hand to hand. Before long, he was juggling three such purses, the green one, a brown leather one, and a black one. Every now and then he deftly snatched one of his prizes from the air before a thief could make off with it, then resumed his juggling.

Katarina regarded her brother out of the corner of her eye. "You serve the Du Couteau," she said. "You don't have to steal."

A fourth purse joined the mix. "I don't have to," Talon agreed. "But old habits die hard and I'm bored."

Katarina raised an eyebrow, her right one, the one that wasn't stiff and broken, but she said no more about Talon's growing collection of valuables. They had reached their destination anyway.

Katarina turned into a small, non-descript, store. The entrance lacked even a sign to indicate its nature.

Talon, following after her, cleared his throat. "Kat," he began, "I know it's early – trust me - but I should warn you, this is a knife shop. It is not a sword shop."

"I know," Katarina said.

"You're sword shopping," Talon said.

"I know," Katarina said again.

"Well in that case…" Talon mumbled to himself, trailing off.

The store they'd entered was poorly lit and smelled strongly of oil. The threshold they passed through to enter was stone, as was the rest of the building, and the open door was steel. When it was locked, no one could enter and no one could leave. Two guards, as tall as Katarina and as muscular as Darius, flanked the doorway. All along the walls hung knives – big knives, small knives, plain knives, jeweled knives, Ionian knives, Shuriman knives, every kind of knife was represented among the stock.

The shopkeeper, an older, balding, man with a wiry build, nodded to the two assassins as they entered. "Lady Du Couteau," he greeted. "Talon. What do you need?" They were the only customers in the room.

"I need a sword," Katarina said.

Confusion passed over the shopkeeper's face. "I sell knives," he began. "Don't sell swords."

Talon cleared his throat loudly.

"I know," Katarina snapped, annoyance that no one understood her intent finally creeping into her voice. She took a steadying breath. "I thought you could tell me where to go. I'm looking for a zweihander – one of those old two handed things." Beside her, Talon shifted, indicating an interest in her words, but she ignored him.

The shopkeeper frowned pensively and crossed his arms over his chest. "Haven't seen anyone making zweihanders in years," he said. "Not sure you can just buy one. Might need to have it forged special. Could take a month or so."

"I don't have time for that," Katarina said. "I need this by next week," she continued. "Where can I go to get one?" She reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver coin, which she tossed to the man.

The shopkeeper caught the coin, but he looked like he had half a mind to ask Katarina if she'd heard him. If he did entertain such an idea, though, he thought better of it. "There's a shop a few blocks down," he said. "They might know where to look. Not sure though. I'll give you directions."

The directions the shopkeeper gave lead to a vendor who, as firmly as he dared, explained to Katarina that nowhere in the city did anyone sell a weapon as antiquated and impractical as a zweihander. He was in the middle of trying to convince her to buy a standard sabre, embellished with gold inlay, when he saw her fingering the knife on her belt and instead decided to send her down the road to another shop which, he promised, might actually have what she was looking for.

It did not.

Nor did the next shop, nor the next, nor the next.

As the morning turned to afternoon and the afternoon slipped by, Katarina's good mood vanished with the passing day. Wisely, Talon continued to follow her but remained silent.

Walking out the door of yet another store that didn't have what she wanted, Katarina kicked a pile of snow heaped up next to the building. The snow was more ice than snow, and she immediately regretted her decision, though she managed not embarrass herself by yelping in pain and surprise.

"You know," Talon began cautiously, "She'll probably be just as happy with a promise you're having a sword made."

Katarina flexed her toes in her boot experimentally. Nothing was broken, not that she'd expected any real injury, but her foot hurt. "It's not the same," she muttered. In a display of frustration, she ran her fingers through her long red hair. "Is there anywhere we haven't tried yet?"

Talon sighed and frowned. "Let me think about it."

Katarina moved to lean her back against the wall of the building they'd just left. "I thought this would be easy," she said.

"You thought buying a weapon no one's used in decades at the drop of a hat would be easy?" Talon asked, sarcasm dripping from his tone. Instead of joining his sister against the wall, he positioned himself across from her, fairly close so as to avoid standing in the path of traffic.

Katarina scowled. "Buying things is always easy," she replied. "This shouldn't be hard."

Talon rolled his eyes.

"Just think of something, I-," when she felt the brush of something against her leg, Katarina cut her words short and whirled around, knife out, already seeking the throat of whomever dared try to steal from her.

Talon deftly caught his sister's wrist in mid-flight with one hand and seized the child by the back of the shirt with his other. Hefting the runt as if she weighed nothing, he picked her up off the ground and held her dangling out in front of him. "You should be more careful, kid," he said, letting go of Katarina, who snarled but sheathed her knife without attempting any further violence.

"Whadda you want?" the child snapped. Her voice was angry, but her eyes were huge with terror.

Talon pressed the green purse he'd acquired earlier into the girls' hand. Her fingers immediately wrapped around it in a white-knuckled death grip and she clutched it close to her chest. "Where's the nearest ring ?" he asked.

"Pike and Gutter, third house down the right, right 'round back. Can't miss it," the child said promptly. "Everyone knows that. It's the biggest in the city. Can I go now?"

Talon dropped her and she landed on her feet before scurrying away into the crowd.

"What was that about?" Katarina asked.

Talon began to move through the streets with his sister following him. "The rings like exotic weapons, and they like reliable weapons," he said. "If anyone has a zweihander lying around, it'll be them."

"Why didn't you think of this sooner?" Katarina demanded.

"You wanted to shop," replied Talon.

Katarina glared.

"They might not want to deal with us," Talon continued. "They don't like your family. The general tried to eradicate these places a few years ago. The Du Couteau name is very unpopular in this part of the city."

"We'll figure something out," Katarina replied.

It was evening when they reached the ring, and the wooden bleachers that surrounded the fighter's pit were already crowded as two lightly armed men traded blows below. While the rings often drew large followings from the middle and lower classes of Noxus, this one was particularly large and the stands were packed.

As Talon wove them through the crowd, Katarina glanced down at the combatants, expecting to see two thugs pounding each other.

Instead, to her surprise, she found she knew one of them.

She'd recognize that mustache anywhere. Unfortunately. Her eyes narrowed and a plan fell together in her head.

Down in the ring, Draven twirled his two axes in his hands, then threw one up into the air, caught it, and hurled it at his opponent. The other man managed to dive out of the way to avoid the projectile, causing the axe to hit handle-first against the wooden wall of the arena and bounce back. Draven caught it again without even looking. The crowd went wild, jumping to their feet, screaming, cheering, and the like.

Ignoring his opponent, Draven turned to face the audience and blew them a kiss.

"Wait," Katarina said to her brother.

"This interests you?" Talon asked. He glanced over at the fighters. "The one with the axes is showy, and it's going to get him killed."

Indeed, the other man, armed with a sword and shield, took advantage of Draven's turned back to charge.

Smoothly, Draven stepped aside, stuck his foot out, and tripped his opponent. With a flourish, he raised an axe, waved at the crowd, then buried the steel blade in the back of the other man's head with a sickening crack and a spurt of blood that stained the sand-strewn wooden floor of the arena.

Again, the crowd screamed in adoration.

"Or not," Talon amended.

"Come on," Katarina said, gesturing for her brother to follow. She moved down toward the gate of the fighter's pit, staying just out of view, and stalked after Draven as he greeted his fans, slowly making his way to the main building, no doubt to collect his winnings. When he'd finally passed out of the crowd and his fans, Katarina quickly stepped in front of her prey.

Taken by surprise, Draven took a step back, then crossed his arms over his chest, straightened his posture somewhat, and attempted a smirk.

He was dressed in a fur vest and had blue body paint all over his arms and chest.

Restraining herself from laughing, Katarina asked, "Draven, does your brother know you're here?"

Draven gulped, but found his spine. He opened his arms, gesturing to indicate the entire area. "Welcome to the ring of Draven," he said. "Draven's ring. The ring for basking in Draven." His smile faltered ever so slightly. "What does Darius have to do with it?"

"So he doesn't know you're here," Katarina concluded.

"I'm the most popular fighter this joint's ever seen – that any of these joints've ever seen," Draven said. He paused and a trace of uncertainty passed over his face. "So of course Darius doesn't know."

"You're going to do what I say, or I'll tell him," Katarina said.

Draven sneered. "So tell him. Tell him his little bro's a star," he said. "Maybe he'll be proud of me for once."

Katarina frowned. She supposed that that particular threat had been lackluster. She'd have to do better. She unsheathed a knife and began to toy with it, not pointing it at Draven, just showing him that it was there. "You'll do what I say or I'll kill you," she said. She smiled. "And it will hurt."

Draven glanced around, looking for help. Talon stood between him and the crowd, and the crowd was busy watching the next fight anyway.

"What do you want?" Draven asked reluctantly.

"You're going to take my money and go over to them," here Katarina pointed to the building, "And you're going to buy a zweihander for me – preferably unused. And then I'll be on my way and you can go back to embarrassing yourself." She paused, then added, "And you're going to stay away from Cassiopeia."

To Katarina's surprise, Draven did not immediately give in. He was in his element, and, though he feared her, he wasn't so scared he would just swallow his overlarge ego. "Is it for your girlfriend?" he asked. He took a step forward, well within Katarina's striking distance. "Make up for my bro kicking her ass? She still look good all cut open? Or do you like her better that way?"

Katarina snarled and lashed out, not with her knife, but with her fist. She'd been caught off guard by his words and that hand had been in a better position to beat sense into him on short notice. Her punch caught the slightly shorter man across the jaw and caused him to stagger, though it lacked the power to outright floor him. Slowly, menacing, Katarina cracked her knuckles.

Massaging his face with one hand and reaching for one of the axes on his belt with the other, Draven backed away slightly. "Here's how it's going to go down, bitch," he said, "You help me, I help you."

Katarina scoffed. She looked pointedly at Draven's axe. "We've done this before," she said. "You lost. And Darius isn't here to save you this time."

"Kat," Talon cut in, "At least hear him out. It could save us time."

"Yeah, Kat," Draven echoed, "Listen to your-

"Don't provoke her," Talon snapped, glaring at Draven.

Katarina forcefully sheathed her knife. Talon was offering her a way out that would keep her from killing Darius' younger brother and save most of her pride as well. She'd be a fool not to take it, though it pained her. This time it was her turn to ask, "What do you want?"

Draven straightened his posture once more. "You nobles have influence," he said. "I want to be down in the arena, the big one. I want to do what Urgot does – but better. Way better."

Katarina scoffed. "You think I can do that for you?"

Draven smiled. "You think Draven can get that sword for you?"

"Fine. I'll do it. You have my word," Katarina said, already regretting her decision. She didn't have the power, she didn't know the right people – but Cassiopeia did, and the younger woman had indicated some degree of personal investment in the whole affair the previous night. Maybe, just maybe, Cassiopeia would help out of the goodness of her heart. If she didn't, then she was well versed in knowing exactly what she wanted from Katarina in return for her assistance.

Deftly, Katarina removed the purse Darius had given her the previous day from her belt.

"That won't be enough," Talon warned. "That much steel is expensive."

Katarina scowled, then with a few quick motions, she added her own money to the offering. She glanced at her brother. "You too."

"But…" Talon started, then shook his head. Reluctant, he produced his takings from the day.

Draven took the money and then gave a dramatic bow. "Draven is at your service," he said as he backed away towards the building.

As Katarina waited impatiently, Talon moved to stand at her side. "Congratulations on not killing him," he said.

"I don't think anyone's ever complimented me on that before," Katarina replied.

"It's because we're normally too busy complaining about your lack of restraint," said Talon.

It took Draven over half an hour to reappear, but when he did, he was dragging a massive zweihander, wrapped in oiled cloth, behind him. When he reached Katarina, he dropped the weapon at her feet. "Draven came through," he said. He also tossed a single half-empty purse to Talon. "That's what's left."

Katarina knelt down and ran a hand over the hilt of the sword. The pommel was a lump of unshaped steel, polished just enough to take down its rough edges. Untanned leather, going from the pommel to the guard, formed the grip of the weapon. The guard itself seemed small, hardly extending more than an inch from any part of the blade, but in truth it was probably three hand spans in width.

"These people don't deal in bad weapons," Talon remarked.

Katarina ignored him. She pushed at the cloth covering the blade itself, revealing forged steel. Patterns resembling ripples in water stretched over the metal, hinting at its quality. The assassin didn't have to touch the edge to know that the sword was already sharp enough to do anything asked of it, and more.

"You'll come through for me?" Draven asked, uncertainty faint in his voice.

Entranced by the steel, Katarina didn't look up. "I am a Du Couteau and I gave my word," she said. "It will be so." She replaced the cloth and stood. "Talon, carry it," she ordered.

Draven scoffed. "Good luck with that," he said. "If Draven couldn't do it, I doubt you can." He turned and sauntered away, headed back towards the ring.

Talon sighed and bent down to pick up the blade. Using his legs to lift, he managed to get the hilt up onto his shoulder, but that left the tip still on the ground. He frowned, then shuffled around so he faced Katarina. "If you want to get this home, you're going to have to help."

"I brought you here to carry it," Katarina said.

"I know," replied Talon. A pained look crossed his face. "And I can't. So you have to help."

"Fine," said Katarina. With much difficulty, she managed to get the other end of the blade up onto her own shoulder. "Let's go then."

The walk back up the mountain to the Du Couteau estate with the sword was long, hard, and, with the night settling down and turning the snow to ice, treacherous and miserable as well. By the time they were dragging the outlandishly heavy weapon through the front door of the mansion, both assassins were covered in sweat and their limbs ached.

"I don't know how she does it," Talon muttered as he kicked the door closed behind them.

"One handed too," Katarina replied. She shifted the weight on her shoulder, trying to find a more comfortable spot for it.

"Ridiculous," said Talon. "I don't believe you."

"I swear, she-

Katarina was interrupted by laughter. She looked up to find her sister doubled over in mirth and clutching the rail of the stairs to stay upright.

"Shut up!" Katarina shouted.

Talon just glowered.

"You still have to get it up three flights of stairs," Cassiopeia taunted.

"We can't leave this in the basement with the rest of the weapons?" Talon asked.

"No," Katarina said grimly. "We're taking it to my rooms." She took a deep breath and began to advance on the stairs where Cassiopeia was still failing to contain her mocking laughter. As they walked past the youngest Du Couteau, Katarina snapped, "Cass, get Draven into the arena as an executioner."

Cassiopeia's mirth vanished. She straightened and regarded her older sister carefully. "Why would I do that?"

Katarina jerked her head to indicate the sword across her shoulder. The movement unsettled the balance and Talon let out an unhappy grunt behind her on the stairs. "This was your idea," Katarina said. "Deals had to be made. So make it happen."

"I recall you being the one who suggested sword shopping," Cassiopeia replied.

"Are you invested in this or not?" Katarina replied, continuing her ascent and not bothering to look at her sister. "Just do it."

Cassiopeia sighed. "Very well," she said, "But…" she trailed off and tapped a single finger against her chin. "But if I do that, well, I won't have time to ask Riven to come to the party. You'll have to do it."

Katarina froze mid-step. "What?"

Behind her, Talon, who hadn't been expecting the sudden stop, swore loudly.

* * *

A/N: Okay. I promise Riven will show up in the next chapter. Pinky swear. She was going to be in this chapter, but then Draven showed up and just kind of turned it into the Fic of Draven (really, he was not in the plan at all, and then I was writing the scene with Talon and the kid and I was like, "Oh. Draven comes next"). But yes! Riven will be back! Soon!

... or actually not so soon maybe. Because that's the other thing I sort of need to address real quick. I got a second job the other week and that makes my schedule quite a bit more busy than it was before. I mean, like, I'm happy because yay money, but, also, working two jobs that are both a ~40 min commute away is sort of time consuming, you know? I've been pretty proud of my update schedule thus far (I'm actually super tired right now and probably should not have posted this chapter considering how I'm about to fall asleep at my desk, but I sort of wanted to...) and I intend to make an effort to keep writing and whatnot (I'm pretty excited for Riven and Kat to finally be in a scene together again), but if for some reason there isn't another chapter in approximately a week, it's because real life happened.


	10. Burials: Chapter 10

A/N: Thank you to Deixis and Balabalabagan for their amazing work as beta readers.

Thank you to everyone reading. I guess I misjudged about that schedule slip thing since now I'm posting this, like, a day early. I suppose having less free time just makes me more efficient or something. Happy Monday.

* * *

"What if she's not awake yet?" Katarina asked as Cassiopeia guided her sister's arms into the sleeves of a winter coat. They stood together in the entrance hall of their family home.

"She woke up yesterday afternoon and went home," the younger Du Couteau replied, moving on to doing up the buttons of Katarina's jacket. "Now remember, it's on the solstice, it starts at midday and goes until everyone leaves, which will likely be quite late."

"I don't know where she lives," Katarina said stubbornly. She did not move at all to help her sister dress her.

Satisfied with Katarina's buttons, Cassiopeia pulled a hat down over the assassin's head, low enough to keep her ears warm. "She lives in the military district outside the walls, in the barracks of the third company of the third division in the second army group. Should I get you a map?"

"I know where the military district is. Why are you being so obnoxious and condescending?" Katarina asked.

"Because you're acting like a child," Cassiopeia answered. "It would be adorable if it weren't so sad." She placed the tip of her index finger right between Katarina's shoulder blades and gave the other woman a little push. "Now shoo."

Katarina shot her sister a parting glare, just to make extra certain that Cassiopeia knew exactly how she felt, and then headed out the door and into the wintry morning.

How hard could asking Riven to come to Cassiopeia's party possibly be? She'd walk down the mountain, tell Riven to present herself at the manor next week, and then go home. Simple.

Navigating the icy streets of Noxus, Katarina frowned.

Ordering, commanding, telling – these were things she did as naturally as breathing and rarely did they fail her. But her current goal was not quite routine and Riven was not quite like her quarry in the past. Perhaps a different approach was needed. Perhaps she should ask the soldier instead. So she'd walk down the mountain, ask Riven to present herself, and then go home.

Katarina's frown deepened.

What if Riven said no?

A laughable thought - no one ever denied Katarina Du Couteau, not when she set her sights on them. Still, the specter of rejection was terrifying.

It was far better, Katarina decided, to simply tell Riven to come. That way there would be no room for argument.

But what if Riven didn't want to?

Katarina's frown turned to a scowl and she shook her head in a vain attempt to clear away her doubts. She hated uncertainty.

Of course Riven would want to come. Why wouldn't she? Or had she only come to the Du Couteau mansion before because Katarina had something she needed? But Darius had said that Riven thought of Katarina as a friend – but was Katarina only a friend? What did that even mean? What was a friend? Katarina had Talon and she had Cassiopeia, but they weren't friends, they were siblings.

Why was she even so invested in Riven's presence?

Katarina had taken lovers on occasion in the past, men and women she'd return to when her work permitted, but she had never… spent time with them. Nor had she ever wanted to. Furthermore, she'd grown tired of them quickly, discarding them after no more than a month or two.

And yet, there was Riven, a woman Katarina had, as Cassiopeia so gleefully pointed out two nights ago, spent a month doing absolutely nothing of note with. Katarina's stomach tightened. Was it because Riven wasn't interested?

Katarina could scowl no harder. All around her, the men and women milling about in the streets cleared out of the assassin's way so as not to draw the woman's attention and ire.

In the past month, it seemed she'd spent a great deal of time deciding how she felt about Riven but precious little time deciphering how Riven felt about her.

At the arena, before the fight, their eyes had met and Riven had smiled at her.

Surely Riven was interested.

Years and years ago, when Katarina was eleven, she'd come upon her sister playing with a white flower out behind their summer estate some distance from the city. Cassiopeia had been picking the flower's petals out, one by one, and muttering to herself. Katarina had asked her younger sister what she was doing torturing a dead plant, and Cassiopeia had explained that it was a trick to figure out if a boy in her class loved her or not.

At the time, Katarina had fallen on her ass laughing. When she'd finally recovered enough to speak, she'd told her sister to go do something useful, like break into the boy's room and search his belongings for a journal, pictures, or stolen items. This had the extra benefit, she'd explained, of putting you in a good position to destroy the other person's life if you didn't like what you found. It was clearly superior to asking a flower.

Did Riven even have enough possessions to make breaking into her things worth it? The soldier probably wasn't literate enough to be keeping a journal anyway.

Katarina sighed to herself. Given the situation, she wouldn't have minded having her sister's stupid magic flower.

So lost in her swirl of thoughts, Katarina didn't realize how far she'd come until the shadow of the great outer gates of the city fell upon her face as she passed beneath the outer wall of Noxus. A quick glance to the sky revealed that it was almost midday. Katarina quickened her pace. How had Riven managed to travel so far every day? She'd probably jogged at least some of the distance up the mountain.

Boundaries marked by a low wooden palisade, the compound of the second army group was relatively close to the gates and Katarina located it without trouble. Though she was not in uniform, no one challenged her entrance to the base. The two guards, sitting huddled around a small fire, hardly even glanced at her. Katarina made a mental note to report the abysmal lack of security to her father the next time she saw him.

In fact, throughout the compound, out of the few men milling about, no one seemed to notice Katarina's presence, much less care. The soldiers moved about with their heads down, saying nothing, seeming to wander aimlessly with vacant stares. Though Katarina appreciated her beeline to Riven's barracks being unimpeded, the quiet of the base, especially compared to the bustle of the city, was unnerving.

Training yards, marked by the absence of snow and ice over the frozen dirt, were maintained but unoccupied. Weapon racks for practice blades were full and untouched. Even the sounds from the kitchens were muted.

Though she was warm in her thick coat, a shiver ran down Katarina's spine.

The second army group was traditionally assigned to the Demacian front.

Had casualties from the last campaign really been so heavy?

Katarina set such thoughts aside as she came to the door of the barracks for Riven's company, marked by its division and company number painted in red on the stone lintel. Casualties, provisions, battlefield tactics – those were all things for High Command. There was no need for her to concern herself with them.

Gathering herself, Katarina pushed the barracks door open and entered, looking for all the world like she owned the place.

The hallway she'd come into was dimly lit by yellow-hued hextech lamps strung up in a line down the center of the corridor's ceiling. Heating elements sat at even intervals along one wall, warming the building. To her immediate right was an open door that lead to an office empty save for a few desks and a door which she knew lead to storage. To her left was the first door of several that went to the individual rooms granted to officers. It took no time at all to stride down the row and locate the one reserved for the company's captain.

At this door, she paused, hand hovering a mere inch from the doorknob.

Should she knock or simply enter?

Slowly, her hand rose and formed into a fist, then drew back to rap on the wood.

But… what if she'd come to the wrong door? What if she were in the wrong barracks? Surely Cassiopeia wouldn't have given her bad directions? Of all the childish things her younger sister might do, bad directions were beneath her.

Katarina dropped her hand back down the doorknob and nudged it gently. It was not locked and it made almost no sound at all. Making sure to stay as quiet as possible, the assassin opened the door.

In the room beyond, Riven sat cross-legged on her bed, which was set parallel and against the far wall, with her back to the door. Dressed in the simple clothes of a soldier, the white-haired woman felt peaceful, serene. As her visitor stepped into the room, she did not stir.

Unready to disturb her, Katarina paused to check the room for exits and weapons. The only exit was the door she'd just come through and the only weapon she saw was a short field knife, sheathed and sitting on top of the soldier's armor chest. At the foot of said chest lay the two halves of Riven's once great sword. The blade had broken unevenly and the jagged edge left behind was no doubt as effective a tool as any. Katarina did not doubt that, if pressed, Riven could still use the lower half of her sword, could still kill with it.

That would be something to see indeed.

Survey complete, the assassin had nothing left but to do but begin approaching the soldier from behind, staying out of her line of sight and not blocking the light coming from the single harsh hextech bulb hanging from the ceiling. She paused just far enough away that her shadow did not enter the other woman's field of vision.

Part of the reason Riven had yet to notice her was that the soldier was busy scowling at a book in her lap. She gripped the small volume tightly in one hand to keep it open and with the other hand she kept her place on the page, running a finger excruciatingly slowly beneath each and every letter. From the motion in her jaw, and from having spent a month trying to help her, Katarina knew Riven was mouthing the sounds as she worked to piece together words.

Finally making up her mind, Katarina quickly closed the distance between them, moving to loom over Riven's shoulder.

It was amusing to the assassin to see the soldier actually jump as soon as she noticed the shadow crossing over her book, though only Katarina's quick reflexes saved her nose from the back of Riven's head.

Riven quickly spun around on her bed to face the intruder. Her eyes widened when she recognized the other woman. Her book fell closed onto the floor. "My la-Katarina," Riven stammered.

Now that Riven had turned, it was clear that, after a day in the care of the arena's summoners, she was as healthy as ever, though her drab and loose clothing did little for her appearance. Not that it mattered. The intensity of her eyes, the sharp line of her jaw, the visible muscle in her arms – clothes couldn't hide her. Having scrubbed her tanned skin clean of blood, she smelt faintly of the plain soap issued to soldiers stationed in or near the city of Noxus itself. On anyone else, Katarina wouldn't have even noticed it. Coming from Riven she had to resist the impulse to just stand there trying to inhale more of the scent.

"Why are you here?" Riven asked, composure regained.

Still not sure how to explain herself, Katarina bent down and retrieved the book. It was a small thing, binding beginning to break, pages yellowing with age and abuse, with a cover of rough green leather. She flipped it so she could see the spine, then read out loud, "Flora and Fauna of the Southern Freljord." Katarina frowned and blinked once, making sure she'd correctly understood the title. Confusion evident in her voice this time, she repeated, "Flora and Fauna of the Southern Freljord?"

Riven clambered off of her bed so that she could stand for her guest. Her posture was uncomfortably rigid. Barely a foot or so away from Katarina, the soldier glanced at the book and shrugged. "It's what I had," she said. A hint of a blush spread over her cheeks, made stark for the whiteness of her hair.

Still holding the book, Katarina raised her green eyes to meet Riven's red ones. They were standing close, too close to have a decent conversation, but the assassin didn't believe in backing away and, given that Riven's bed was immediately behind her, the soldier had nowhere to back away to. She was cornered.

With such little space separating them, Katarina couldn't help but notice how much shorter Riven was than her. Though the redhead tended to tower over most everyone she met on account of her long legs, Riven had always seemed taller than she actually was. Her actual height was surprising, but it didn't detract from her presence in the least. If anything, it just made her more feel more… tangible.

Not sure what to say, Katarina dropped her gaze, looking to where the very tip of the scar from Darius' axe peaked out from beneath the collar of Riven's shirt. Briefly, the memory of Riven's bare torso, covered in browning blood and almost unmoving, flashed through her mind, making her stomach twist. She blinked the errant thought away, then hastily said, "You look well."

"I'm alive," Riven replied evenly. While Katarina's eyes had wandered, the soldier continued to look the redhead in the face, as if purposefully determined to look nowhere else.

Silence descended once more.

Riven was standing close enough that Katarina could just lean forward and down slightly and-

Katarina shifted her weight from foot to foot and glanced around the room again. If she could find somewhere else to be, somewhere natural enough that shifting there didn't feel like retreat, then she could put some distance between herself and Riven and maybe they could actually talk. Her eyes fell on an empty desk with a wooden chair pushed up under it. Katarina turned and went to sit on top of the desk, setting the book down beside her. All the while, she could feel Riven's eyes on her. "My sister is hosting a gathering next week, on the solstice," Katarina began. "She'd like for you to attend."

Katarina was not a gambling woman. If she could secure Riven's presence without investing anything of herself, without risking herself, then that was what she'd do.

Riven's brow furrowed and she frowned as she mulled over Katarina's statement. Wordlessly, she sat down on her bed behind her, shoulders hunched and elbows resting on knees.

Seconds ticked past.

Unable to wait patiently, Katarina looked away from the soldier and instead focused her attention on every detail of the sparsely furnished stone room. On a clothes bar bolted to the stone wall near the door hung two uniforms. One was the faded grey uniform she'd seen Riven wear so well before. The other was the same uniform, but in its pristine black state, seemingly unused. Upon further examination, Katarina noticed that the grey uniform had the marks of a needle and thread in lines across the back. Someone had fixed the shirt so that it would fit a woman's body more easily. The black one had not been modified.

Katarina pointed to the grey uniform. "Did you sew that yourself?" she asked.

"Would you like me to attend?" Riven replied.

Was that a note of hope in her tone?

Katarina swallowed and cursed her traitor courage. She was Katarina Du Couteau. Indecisiveness did not suit her. But what was she going to say? She swallowed again, trying to find her tongue. When had talking to Riven become so difficult? "I wouldn't mind," she said.

Still frowning slightly, Riven nodded, seemingly unsatisfied with the answer.

Katarina cleared her throat. "So did you sew that yourself?" she asked once more.

Riven shook her head. "No. A… friend did it for me." Her gaze fell away from Katarina and fixed itself to the empty far corner of the room.

"Why don't you have him fix the other one as well?" Katarina asked. "Then you could stop wearing the old one."

"He's dead," Riven said.

"Oh," said Katarina. Woodenly, she added, "My condolences." Even in her head, her words were empty. Feeling she needed to say something more substantial, she tried, "I'm sure he was strong."

Riven's tone was frost. "If he'd been strong, he'd still be alive."

Katarina stiffened. "He may have been unlucky," she suggested.

To this, Riven said nothing.

Katarina did her best not to grimace. The more she tried to force conversation, the worse things were getting. In fact, she decided, it would be best if she left. In a single fluid motion, she got up from the desk. "I'll see you next week then," she said with as much of her normal confidence as she could muster. Instead of looking for Riven's reaction, Katarina turned her back and stalked towards the still open door.

The assassin was crossing the threshold when the soldier called out, "What time?"

Katarina turned just far enough to look at Riven once more. The soldier had stood and crossed to her desk to retrieve the old book about the Freljord. "Noon," Katarina said. "And plan to stay a while – it's one of those parties, you know."

"I don't know," said Riven.

Katarina wanted to wince at her oversight. Attempting to recover, she replied, "Well, you'll find out." Quickly, before she would be tempted to try to say anything more, she finished leaving the room and shut the door behind her softly.

Once she was safely alone in the hallway, the tension in her shoulders eased and a triumphant smirk spread across Katarina's face.

Mission accomplished.

That hadn't been so bad.

* * *

A/N: Oh Kat. Kat honey. That was pretty bad.


	11. Burials: Chapter 11

A/N: Thank you to Deixis and Balabalabagan for being great beta readers.

And thank you to everyone who is reading. Sorry this came out later than usual, and sorry if you notice any typos (which you should alert me of so I can fix them) my life is excessively hectic right now and my normal writing process got pretty badly disrupted for this chapter and then I kind of rushed because I was pretty behind schedule. Maybe shouldn't have done that, but I'm too tired and my life is too busy.

* * *

"No," said Katarina. She stood clad in nothing but a towel, dripping water onto the floor of her bedroom.

Sitting on her bed was Cassiopeia, smiling smugly and clad in a gorgeous emerald dress that matched her eyes perfectly. Lying on the bed next to Cassiopeia was an outfit, though Katarina hadn't even bothered looking at it past a brief glance to affirm its existence. "You won't even try it on?" Cassiopeia asked, pushing her lower lip out slightly in a pout.

"No," repeated Katarina, who hadn't moved from her place near the door to her bathroom. "Now get out so I can change into something sensible." Trying to subtly adjust the wrap of her towel, she shifted her weight slightly and mentally cursed how loosely she'd arranged the makeshift garment. She hadn't been expecting an ambush in her own bedroom. She should have known, really, but she'd expected Cassiopeia to be busy flower arranging or something equally ridiculous on the morning of her party.

Abandoning her pout, Cassiopeia crossed her arms and stood. With her back straight, she was one of the few women in Noxus who could almost match Katarina in height. "Fine then," she said. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "On one condition – no, not a condition, a demand."

Katarina gaped and clutched her towel slightly tighter. Who was Cassiopeia to make demands to her?

"You may not attend my gathering wearing that drab ensemble you call work clothes," Cassiopeia said. "Come naked for all I care. But you can't wear," here she paused and pointed at the neat stack of clothes on a corner of the bed that Katarina had left for herself before her shower, "That."

Even as Katarina tried to come up with some protest, Cassiopeia swept out of the room.

When she was sure the younger woman had left her quarters entirely, Katarina pulled the bedroom door shut and stood, staring at the door handle, considering her options.

She hated being bullied and she was sorely tempted to wear her usual work leathers, just to spite her sister. On the other hand, a drawn out war with Cassiopeia wouldn't do her any good. Without a doubt, the younger Du Couteau already had several plans for how to make Katarina's life a living hell. Cassiopeia was never so bold unless she was supremely confident she could back up her veiled threats.

Reluctant, Katarina turned towards her bed and examined the clothes Cassiopeia had left.

She might as well look at what her sister had picked out for her. It couldn't hurt.

The outfit was not as terrible as Katarina had imagined, though, truth be told, she wasn't even sure what she'd been imagining. Something that her sister might wear, perhaps.

Instead of a dress, Cassiopeia had chosen a pair of black leather pants, similar to what Katarina normally wore, but tighter and, judging from the cut, meant to sit much lower on her hips. A pair of belts lay on top of the pants. Katarina hoped they were functional as well as decorative. She was fairly sure that, should the pants slip more than an inch, she would end up having very violent words with her sister.

While Katarina normally assumed that one wore a shirt with pants, Cassiopeia had selected a corset – black leather and steel that would leave the abdomen exposed and reveal quite a large amount of cleavage.

Self-consciously, Katarina pulled her towel away from herself and looked down. Her stomach was flat and, while her abdominals were not as defined as, say, Riven's – of course they weren't, Riven had the nicest abs Katarina had ever seen on a woman – they were definitely visible. But was her bust large enough for what Cassiopeia intended?

Katarina grimaced. Her body was perfect. It had yet to fail her, either in the field or in the bars she haunted when she was bored. She absolutely refused to worry about the size of her breasts. It didn't matter and such thoughts were beneath her. She'd never been concerned with it before, why was she thinking about it now?

She looked back to the pile of clothes on the bed.

Right. She was worrying about it because, apparently, Cassiopeia thought that it mattered and the younger Du Couteau was something of an expert on such matters.

The last piece of the outfit was a half-jacket. Almost everything about the garment was decorative. The sleeves were rolled up to just above the elbow and fastened in a way that indicated they weren't meant to ever unroll. Steel plates were fixed to the shoulders, but they were too thin to offer any protection and so angular that they'd probably be painful if she attempted any acrobatics while wearing them. The only functional part of the jacket was the belt across the front which, positioned to lie just above her cleavage, given the cut of the piece, was probably the only way it would stay on properly.

Overall, the outfit was not what Katarina would have picked for herself, but…

She unwound her towel and dropped it to the floor.

Fine.

Cassiopeia could win, this time.

Spending the next month in a cold war with her sister would have been more trouble that it was worth anyway.

Getting the clothes on was a bit more challenging than Katarina would ever admit to anyone, but, after squeezing into the pants, fumbling with the laces on the corset behind her back while straining her neck to unsuccessfully get a glimpse of what she was doing, and figuring out exactly how the jacket was supposed to sit on her shoulders, the redhead found herself rather pleased with how she looked.

Standing in front of a full length mirror, Katarina ran her fingers over the smooth leather covering her thigh. After a quick glance to reassure herself she was alone, she tried one pose, just one. And then she tried another.

She looked good.

Her sister had excellent taste in clothes and style and had known her sizes exactly.

She decided not to dwell on how.

In the full length mirror, Katarina noticed one thing, however, that seemed wrong.

She wasn't wearing any shoes.

She frowned. She knew she should probably not wear anything with her new clothes unless Cassiopeia approved it. Her pride, though, shriveled up and died at the thought of going down the hall, admitting defeat, and asking for shoe recommendations.

Had that been what her sister planned from the beginning?

Katarina grimaced. She would figure out what shoes to wear on her own. She could do that.

She turned away from the mirror. What did she own in the way of shoes?

A bit of white sitting on the black silk sheets of her bed caught Katarina's eye. It was a note. The redhead picked it up and read it.

"Go ahead and wear your normal boots. The tall ones. I'm glad you've come to see things my way. Don't forget to brush your hair."

Methodically, Katarina tore the piece of paper into small shreds before dumping the bits into her waste bin. When she was done with that, she put on the boots Cassiopeia had indicated and brushed her hair. By the time she'd finished dressing to her sister's specifications, it was already almost noon.

Less than pleased with the delay, Katarina hurried out of her quarters and into the hallway, only to be met by Talon, lounging up against the far wall immediately across from her door.

"What?" Katarina demanded.

"You look good," Talon replied mildly.

"Of course I do," Katarina said. Self-consciously, she tugged at the hem of her pants. Despite the belts, she still didn't entirely trust them to stay on properly. "Why are you staking out my rooms?"

Talon cleared his throat. "Your dearest sister-

"What does she want?" Katarina cut in.

"She wants you to wait," Talon said. "At least an hour after the party has started."

"What am I supposed to do until then?" Katarina snapped.

"Wait," said Talon. He pushed himself away from the wall and moved to leave.

"Where are you going?" Katarina asked.

Talon shrugged. "Out of the house." He paused, then, "You should take your sister's advice. This is her game and she's gotten you this far."

As Talon retreated down the hall, Katarina let out a growl of frustration before turning and going back into her quarters. It felt wrong to be purposefully late, especially when she knew that the one and only person she'd invited was habitually punctual. However, as her foster brother had pointed out, following Cassiopeia's instructions would probably be for the best.

The redhead sighed and sat down on her couch. What was she going to do for an hour? Now that she was washed and laboriously dressed, she couldn't train. She lacked the concentration to read reports. Staring at a wall was out of the question. Idly, she drummed her fingers against her leather-clad knee.

She supposed she could always polish her knives.

Mind made up, Katarina went back to her bedroom, where she'd left her usual bandoliers of weapons, which she wore nearly every waking moment, lying on a table in her bedroom. From a drawer in her bedside table, the assassin took one of her strops and then carried all her things back out to her sitting room, where she sat back down on the couch in front of its table.

With practiced hands, Katarina removed her blades one by one from their sheaths and laid them down in front of her. Each one had a visible edge. She kept all her weapons sharp, obsessively so. Some nights, when she couldn't sleep, she'd even clean her knives to center herself. In truth, there was little reason for her to be honing them now, they were as keen as they could be, except that she needed something to do to pass the time.

Careful, Katarina selected the first blade and held it up so that the light caught on its surface. There was not a single imperfection to be seen and it hadn't been used even once since the last time she'd attended to it. She readjusted her grip and laid it out against the leather strop anyway, finding the angle and dragging the edge along first one way, then the other. When she finished going through the motions for that knife, she set it down and moved on to the next.

It wasn't long before sharpening her already razor sharp knives proved not enough of a distraction. Less than half an hour had passed before Katarina dropped the blade she'd been working on and stood from her couch. If she walked slowly, she'd still arrive at the ballroom on the first floor unreasonably late – surely enough that Cassiopeia wouldn't notice she was actually early.

Mind made up, the redhead moved to her door and headed back out into the hallway. She already felt better. The simple act of walking, of making progress towards some goal, however slowly, calmed her nerves.

And she was nervous. She could not lie to herself about that, even if she tried.

She was approaching her best chance, maybe her only chance, and, given her mistakes the previous week, she doubted even her sister's skills and machinations could save her if she failed to… to do whatever it was she was supposed to do.

What was she supposed to do?

At the far end of the last corridor between her and the great hall of the Du Couteau mansion, Katarina paused her advance to stand hovering out of sight of the festivities. Music mixed with conversation drifted down the hall in a confused rumble. Though Cassiopeia had opened the doors not even an hour prior, many of her guests had already arrived. With so many Noxians spending most of their lives in military service, there was no such thing as fashionably late among the aristocracy.

Bracing herself for the chaos that was one of her sister's social events, Katarina gathered her courage and strode down the hall and into the ballroom.

The great hall of the Du Couteau mansion was among the finest of its sort in Noxus. Ornamented guests danced on dark hardwood logged a century early in the Kumungu jungles. Gilt-edged mirrors lined black marble walls, reflecting the twinkling light of hextech chandeliers suspended by steel chains from the high ceiling. The room actually extended into the second floor of the manor, allowing for balconies. These, Katarina noted, were currently unoccupied and heavy curtains had been drawn across their entrances. No doubt people would find their way up to them later in the night, but for now they were closed.

Having grown up in the house, Katarina was less than impressed with the luxury of the room. Instead of dwelling on the expense her sister had thrown into the event, she peered out over the crowd of guests, searching for Riven's distinctive white hair. It didn't take long to find it.

Katarina took a step forward, but was immediately stopped by a hand on her elbow.

"I told you to wait," Cassiopeia hissed.

Katarina pulled out of her sister's grip and the younger woman didn't stop her. "I'm bad at waiting," the assassin said.

"Did you even try?" Cassiopeia asked. She wrinkled her nose, slightly, nowhere near enough to mar her features. "It doesn't matter anymore," she said. "You're here now and we'll just have to make the best of it. Come." Assuming that her elder sister would follow, Cassiopeia set off through the swirl of people, winding a circuitous route towards the white-haired soldier at the far end of the ballroom.

When they arrived, Riven, and Darius beside her, appeared to be in a heated argument with a pair of men Katarina had never seen before. Both wore the distinctive medley of vibrant, ill-matching, colors distinctive of Zaunite fashion. One man, a tall, broad man with dark brown hair, clad in a patchwork suite of green and yellow and orange, stood slightly in front of the other and it was this leader of the pair who was speaking as the Du Couteau sisters approached.

"-limited. It's all so limited. No vision. How many men can you kill at once with that axe? Three? Four?"

"Enough," Darius answered, his voice a deep growl of anger. Whatever had been said previously in the conversation, it had clearly had an effect on him.

"We can kill hundreds," the stranger said with a pleasant laugh. Behind him, the other man, a man with patchy blond hair and a bent back, gave a closed lip smile.

Cassiopeia touched Katarina's shoulder to get her attention and then motioned for them to stay back. For once, Katarina agreed with the younger woman. They needed to know what was going on before they moved. Every half-competent assassin would do the same.

"It's not the Noxian way." Riven's tone was quiet and could have been mistaken for calm but for the tremble of rage that shook in every syllable. Goosebumps prickled over Katarina's skin. She hadn't seen such barely restrained emotion in the soldier since their first meeting so many months ago.

At Riven's side, Darius crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance slightly. His change in posture made the already physically imposing man positively loom over the two foreigners. "You're wasting your time here," he said. "High Command has no need for a coward's cheap tricks. We value steel."

The Zaunite nodded his head politely. "That may be so, but we'll see," he said. "How many of your cannon fodder did you lose last year trying to club the Demacians to death with pointy sticks?"

"Our battles are no place for your sick magics," Riven said. She took a step forward, encroaching on the Zaunite's personal space. Katarina unconsciously stepped back, and so too did the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Everyone could sense the coming fight and instead of stopping it, they were making room.

The man shrugged. "What better place is there? It saves the expense of finding test subjects." He paused, contemplating his words, then continued, "I don't see why this upsets you. Your Noxians kill all the time. You're not so different from us. Shouldn't you be happy we're coming up with better ways to do it?"

"There's not honor in…" Riven frowned and trailed off, letting her silence suggest whatever it was the Zaunites wanted.

"Soldiers are outdated. Antiquated. Your time has come and gone," the man replied. "When Noxus accepts our help, you can retire from swinging a club and beating your chest," he continued. "You could go do something useful, like cook."

Time slowed down.

As Katarina watched, Riven tensed and shifted her weight, balancing and bracing to throw a punch that would surely floor the foreigner, at the very least. Darius moved out of the soldier's way and, with the slightest of nods, the general gave his approval. Despite the din of the rest of the party, it seemed that the collective inhalation of the assembled bystanders was audible.

In that moment of crystallized time, when all others were still, Cassiopeia stepped forward, placing herself between Riven and the Zaunite. As if nothing out of the ordinary were going on around her, the younger Du Couteau linked her elbow with the Zaunite man's. "Warwick!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad you could make it." Turning slightly, she acknowledged the other foreigner. "And, of course, you as well, Singed."

The blond man nodded back. "My pleasure."

Having caught Warwick's elbow, it was simple enough for Cassiopeia to begin walking away, drawing the two foreigners with her.

Still seemingly unaware of Katarina's presence, Riven looked up to Darius. Neither of the two soldiers looked any more relaxed, even though their hostess had removed the object of their ire. "What he said about Darkwill…" Riven said, a question evident in her voice.

"He wouldn't," Darius replied, though his tone lacked its usual confidence. He paused, frowning, then, "There are some people I need to speak with here," the general said. Turning his head, he let his gaze settle on Katarina. Though Riven had been distracted, it seemed Darius at least had noticed the assassin some time ago. "And I think the lady Du Couteau wants a word with you."

Taking that as her cue, Katarina approached. "I might want a word with you, general," she said, trying to sound disinterested, like her heart hadn't just sped up as if she were in the midst of a mission, fighting for her life.

"You didn't," Darius grunted. Preventing any further conversation, he turned his back to the redhead and started to walk away, shouldering through the crowd of guests when they didn't make way for him swiftly enough.

Once the general had fully vanished into the sea of people, Katarina forced herself to slowly, deliberately, turn and train her attention on the white-haired soldier before her.

She wanted to gulp, to fidget, to somehow show her nervousness, but she didn't.

She was Katarina Du Couteau and she was not nervous.

The redhead allowed herself to smile slightly. "Riven."


	12. Burials: Chapter 12

A/N: Thank you to Deixis and Balabalabagan for being my wonderful beta readers. Also, to the skype chat for my sanity these past couple weeks and for helping talk me through this chapter yesterday morning at 4am.

I'd apologize for being, like, a couple weeks late on the update, but I did warn you. And it's, like, ~6k words so that's kind of big. It could have been shorter but I was trying really hard not to do that cliffhanger thing that people apparently don't like. Also, my work schedule is psychotic cthulhu levels of crazy, I just moved to a new apartment last week, etc. etc. etc. Also, I spent quite a bit of time on League and finally got my 3s team into gold instead of writing. yay.  
And this chapter was crazy hard to write. I'm sort of only posting it now because I've gotten so fed up with it I just can't anymore. Like. Just can't. Literally can't.

Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy.

* * *

"K-Katarina," Riven stammered, startling ever so slightly at the assassin's arrival. She half-turned to face the redhead, shifting her weight from foot to foot nervously. In a black infantry officer's uniform with silvery steel buttons - the new one, not the old one she'd worn so often before - she could have easily blended in with the crowd of other officers milling about the hall, but for her clear unease with the setting.

Though Riven was on the short side of average in terms of height, she was muscular and her poise, under normal circumstances, created a presence that could command a room. Now that Warwick and Singed had gone, however, now that she was alone with Katarina in a sea of unfamiliar faces dressed in fine clothes and dancing the steps of courtly manners, Riven was doing her best to collapse in on herself.

It was… cute how ineffective the soldier's efforts were.

"So," Katarina began. She paused, letting the word stretch and drift as she decided what to say next and made her best attempt to act as if she'd planned it out.

"I came," Riven said, trying to fill the space that Katarina's hesitation had created. As the soldier fidgeted, her eyes slowly dropped south of the redhead's face and lingered there.

Katarina stilled her impulse to immediately comment on the soldier's wandering gaze. If Riven was staring, then it meant she was interested, and if she was interested, well, that was a good thing. So let her stare. On the other hand, the longer it went on without conversation to distract from it, the more awkward the situation would become. Attempting to pitch her voice to convey amusement instead of annoyance or, even worse, anger, Katarina tried, "My eyes are up here."

The blush that spread across Riven's face tinged the tips of her ears crimson. Her gaze snapped back up to meet Katarina's. "I… ah…"

The redhead forced a smile. Maybe she shouldn't have said anything. Why hadn't Cassiopeia provided her with things to say as well as clothes? Now she needed to reassure the soldier somehow, to tell her that she didn't mind. Katarina swallowed a lump in her throat. Words. She had to find words.

"Sorry," Riven said lamely. "I didn't mean to…"

Growing desperate to say something, anything at all, Katarina opted for the truth, simple and direct. Eloquence was her sister's domain, not hers. Imbuing her tone with as much confidence as she could muster, she said, "It's fine."

Katarina allowed herself a brief moment to bask in the triumph of getting those two words out before moving on to the problem of what to say afterwards.

Riven, for her part, remained silent. Her blush, all the more vibrant for the color of her hair, showed no signs of fading.

The redhead cast her eyes about the hall. Normally, people interacting at these sorts of parties indulged in small talk aided by liberal amounts of alcohol. She thought she remembered her sister once mentioning that it made conversations easier. In most cases, Katarina avoided drink because of the haze that accompanied it. The loss of fine control over her mind, over her body, disturbed her in a way she could not quite describe. For this one time though, perhaps she could make an exception.

"Would you like something to drink?" Katarina asked.

Riven nodded with slightly more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary.

Relief that she had some sort of plan, however short term, washed over Katarina. She turned and gestured for Riven to follow. While trying to converse with the soldier felt unnatural, leading her through the crowd was anything but. Without looking, without even being able to hear footsteps through the din of the party, Katarina knew that the other woman was a half-step behind her, just as she had been all those times previous when Katarina traversed the mansion with her.

The redhead took them to the bar set up in the corner of the grand room. It was not original to the architecture, as the manor itself far pre-dated the fashion of serving varied drinks from a single station, but for all the expense lavished on it, it was as much a part of the house as the high windows that lined the wall beside it. Outside, the solstice sun was already sinking down towards the snow-covered horizon even though it was hardly an hour past noon.

The man behind the bar, a servant dressed in the livery of the Du Couteau, bowed at Katarina's approach. "What would you like, m'lady?"

"Wine," Katarina said. "White. And…" she turned back to Riven who was, predictably, standing beside and slightly behind her. "What do you want?" she prompted.

Riven's red eyes, wide as the flickered across the bottles and bottles of everything a foot soldier could never afford, moved to rest on Katarina. To the redhead's disappointment, they stayed steady and did not for a moment lower again. With a timidity Katarina rarely saw in the soldier, she slowly answered, "I'd like whatever you're getting."

The server nodded and turned to do his work.

Silence descended between the two women.

Once, Riven cleared her throat as if she were preparing to speak. If she had words to say, however, she thought better of them and kept her mouth shut.

Unwilling to make another attempt at conversation and no doubt fail, Katarina allowed her gaze to wander over Riven's form. She recognized the outfit the soldier wore as the almost unused one that had hung in her barracks closet. At some point in the last week, Riven had either found someone to tailor it or done the work herself. From the way the shirt seemed ever so slightly crooked, Katarina was inclined to think the latter, though Riven had done good work overall, managing to refit the garment almost as well as her other uniform. The crisp starched lines of the nearly new clothes suited her and the clean black brought out the color in the soldier's eyes to the point that Katarina realized that Riven's eyes might not be red, but instead a very dark amber.

Though Riven looked very nice in her uniform, Katarina did not doubt she'd look better out of it. It was a shame, really, that-

Riven said something.

Katarina blinked, snapping back into the moment. "What was that?"

"The drinks are ready," Riven repeated.

Katarina tore her eyes away from the soldier and looked at the bar. The servant had left two full glasses there and, instead of disturbing his temperamental employer, moved on to help another guest. Smoothly, Katarina reached out, took a glass, and passed it to Riven. She took the other glass for herself and raised it to her lips, intending to take a small sip.

The small sip turned into a rather large sip that bordered on a gulp, but Riven, who was in the process of draining her entire cup in one go, likely didn't notice. Seeing that the soldier was about to finish her own drink, Katarina took several more gulps until her glass was empty as well. She could not recall having ever attempted to drink wine so quickly and in the back of her mind she could almost hear her old hag of an etiquette teacher berating her.

Holding the empty cup in front of her awkwardly, Riven wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "That was very good," she said.

"Of course it was," Katarina replied. She hadn't tasted the wine in her hurry to finish it, but it hardly mattered. It had no doubt been good, every wine in the manor was at least good, but nothing special. Cassiopeia wouldn't have set out the best of the cellar for public consumption. "Would you like another?"

"Yes," Riven said.

Katarina placed both empty glasses on the bar and signaled for someone to refill them, then turned back towards the soldier. "I see you fixed your uniform," she said.

Riven nodded. She looked as though she intended to say nothing, to merely nod and leave it at that, but then she slowly added, "I sewed it this week."

Noting that the glasses had been refilled, Katarina took hers again and downed another mouthful of the wine, still making no effort to savor it. "You look good in it," she said in a rush.

Riven's blush, which had finally faded, came back full force as she took her own cup and swallowed down half the liquid. "You look very nice too," she said. The soldier glanced at her wine, then at Katarina, but not Katarina's face, and then finished her wine.

Belatedly, Katarina recalled that, at the beginning of the conversation, she'd been trying to appear collected, confident, in control. Whatever chance she'd had at such a feat had now long since fled. She drained her cup, set it down, and gestured for another. Riven slid her own empty glass next to Katarina's.

"Thank you for inviting me," Riven said. She paused, then, "I've never been to something like this."

Katarina was about to reply that Cassiopeia had been the one to extend the invitation, but managed to still her tongue before the words slipped out. She didn't want to make it sound like she didn't care that Riven had come.

Collected.

Confident.

In control.

Pushing through the already settling haze in her mind, Katarina turned her situation this way and that in her mind. It was a good opportunity to compliment Riven. Now she needed words for it. She tilted her head to indicate the room, full as it was with her sister's guests, saying, "This is where the most powerful men in Noxus are gathered. You're strong. You deserve to be here."

Riven picked up her once-more full glass. This time, she merely sipped instead of draining the wine. Her next words were quiet, almost to the point of being inaudible beneath the ambient noise of the great crowd. "I'm out of place here."

Katarina mimicked the soldier, returning to her drink. Saying that she felt out of place meant that Riven was uncertain. If Cassiopeia were present, Katarina imagined she'd say to reassure the other woman, somehow. "You don't have to be," the assassin said.

Riven's brow furrowed in thought as she looked up from her wine to silently meet Katarina's eyes.

Not sure how to read the soldier's face and not willing to wait out the silence, Katarina prodded, "What?"

The soldier took some time to answer, sipping her wine several times before saying, "I don't think I could."

Katarina shrugged. The fog was settling in and it made things easier. "I don't like it here," she said. "At these parties."

"Then why are you here?" Riven asked.

Katarina bit back her instinctive response. It was the truth, but did she want to say it? Again, she hid behind her drink to buy time.

It was Cassiopeia's way to dance around the point, crafting words and playing games.

That was not Katarina's way. She was direct. When she wanted something, she took it. When she needed to do something, she did it. She didn't settle back and scheme until life had passed her by.

She couldn't be her sister, even if she wanted to.

"I'm here because you're here," Katarina said.

"Oh," was all Riven said in reply.

Katarina did her best to hide her disappointment. She wasn't sure what she'd wanted Riven to say, but 'Oh,' hadn't been it. "I-

Behind Katarina, someone cleared their throat loudly. The assassin turned and glared.

It was a nobleman, someone whose name wasn't worth remembering. He wore clothes that cost more than most Noxians made in a year, made in two years. With a single glance, Katarina could see that, in addition to the dagger hanging from his belt, he had a knife clumsily hidden in the front of his jacket.

If he intended any harm, he was too much of an amateur to be a threat. No, it was far more likely that he was one of the many reasons the un-wed heir of the Du Couteau household loathed her sister's parties.

"My lady, may I have a dance?" the noble asked, voice deep and smooth as silk.

Katarina smiled nastily at him, then turned back to Riven. She hated the suitors who swarmed like vultures whenever she showed her face, but she would allow this one to leave unharmed because he'd given her an idea. "Riven, may I have a dance?" she asked.

The soldier started to say, "I don't know how…" but trailed off, eyes flickering from Katarina to the nobleman and then back to the assassin. "Of course," she said, "my lady."

Katarina tipped her glass back and finished her wine before setting the container back down on the bar. Reminding herself that Riven attended balls even less frequently than she herself did, she lead the way through the crowd with Riven a half pace behind.

"Follow me," Katarina murmured as they moved onto the area left clear for the dancers. "I step forward, you step back. I step back, you step forward." In the background, as if on cue – no doubt on cue – the band smoothly transitioned from a lively almost folk-tune into a languid waltzing melody. Katarina glanced over to the musicians in time to catch a glimpse of a departing flash of green. Turning her attention back to her companion, the assassin took Riven's right hand in her left and slipped her other hand around the solder's waist.

Riven startled at the touch, but, after a moment, relaxed and set her free hand on Katarina's shoulder, just as the other dancing women were doing. Her eyes roved all about the room, staring at the surrounding guests for some hint of what to do.

"Look at me," Katarina said.

Slowly, Riven raised her gaze until she was looking up into Katarina's eyes.

With the soldier's full attention, Katarina allowed herself a smile. "Now follow."

On the first handful of steps, Riven hesitated. Katarina allowed it, ignoring the rhythm of the music as the soldier found her feet. To the assassin's surprise, it didn't take much time at all for the other woman to adjust to the dance and before long Katarina found herself leading them through more complicated motions without remembering how they'd gotten there.

When Katarina moved, Riven moved with her, perfectly in tempo.

It felt right.

Only once did Riven try to break rhythm. She took a step forward, too fast, ahead of Katarina, demanding that the assassin cede control.

Katarina smirked and, instead of backing down, stepped forward as well, bringing them close enough that Riven's breath tickled the bare skin of Katarina's neck.

They stood there, frozen, for several beats as the other dancers swirled around them.

Katarina leaned down slightly so that her mouth was next to Riven's ear. "Follow."

Riven followed.

Together, they moved through songs, one after another until the sun dipped down beneath the horizon and the room remained lit only by the glittering hextech chandeliers. They did not stop until the music faded to silence and a collective hush descended over the crowd of guests. On the raised platform where the musicians sat, Cassiopeia walked out, immediately commanding the attention of the room.

In a word, she was gorgeous. The fabric of her dress caught the light and shone with a hundred hues of green, none of which could compare to the intensity of her emerald eyes. Her face, framed by auburn curls, was delicate and so perfectly painted it seemed that she had been born the most beautiful woman in Noxus. Her physical beauty, however, could not compare to her poise. She stood with a straight back and her chin tilted upwards, a position of power despite the fact all others in the room were already beneath her.

Knowing that Riven was watching her sister as surely as every other person in the room, Katarina tightened her grip on the soldier ever so slightly.

"Thank you, all," Cassiopeia began, "for coming here tonight to celebrate the solstice with my family. I thank you, and my sister thanks you as well." Here, the younger Du Couteau extended a hand to indicate where Katarina stood in the crowd with Riven beside her. Momentarily, the guests turned their attention to the assassin, but when she made neither motion nor speech, they returned to Cassiopeia.

Katarina frowned. What was her sister playing at?

Not that she cared.

"Our esteemed father, the general Marcus Du Couteau, could not lend his presence tonight, but rest assured he is pleased you could attend. In his stead, however, I'd like to introduce someone I'm sure each and every one of you will be honored to see." She paused and her next words, though soft, could be heard throughout the hall for the silence that preceded them. "Grand General Boram Darkwill."

The effect of the name was instantaneous. As Cassiopeia left the small stage, the crowd burst into frenzied whispers that only quieted when the man himself appeared, towering over the room.

Cassiopeia had been gorgeous.

Boram Darkwill was overwhelming.

His presence did not stem from physical size, he was no larger than the average Noxian commander, but from the air of barely controlled magic that shrouded him. Cloaked in necromantic power so strong it was visible out of the corner of the eye, it was impossible not to stare up at him in awe. How had he managed to reach the stage unnoticed?

Many in the room had never seen the Grand General before except at a distance years ago. A reclusive man, even Katarina, whose own father served as his right hand, had only met Darkwill himself on a few memorable occasions.

So powerful was Boram Darkwill that Katarina almost didn't notice the man at his side.

Keiran Darkwill, though clearly his father's son, lacked the presence to compete with the older soldier. Despite being a sizeable man, he almost faded into the background.

"Noxians," the elder Darkwill began. "It has been a hard year. We have fought many battles, but we have won few. Our army has grown weak as my attention has been caught by other matters."

Beside her, Katarina felt Riven stiffen, just as so many other uniformed officers in the room did.

"Next year will be different," Darkwill continued. "Next year, my son Keiran will lead our western front. Next year we will reclaim in blood what we have lost."

The Grand General stepped back, as if expecting Keiran to take the floor and say something as well, but the younger man did not. Even if he had, without his father's attention stilling the room, he doubtless would have had to shout to be heard over the storm of gossip that had taken the guests.

On the tip of every tongue was a single question. What about Swain?

Some even scanned the assemblage, searching for the famous general, or at least for the massive bird that always accompanied him. So many had assumed that he would be chosen to redeem the faltering Demacian front, not some untested boy of an aristocrat.

Though Katarina knew first hand that Keiran was a formidable warrior, she could not help but agree with the crowd.

The redhead turned to her companion, whose face was marred by a deep frown. "What do you think of this?" Katarina asked.

Riven shook her head. "He's not one of us."

The sound of the soldier's voice, deep and smooth, brought Katarina's focus away from the politics and back to the moment, to her reason for even being in the room at all. "I got you a solstice gift," she said.

"You said taking me to High Command was your solstice gift," Riven replied, the slightest hint of annoyance coloring her tone.

Katarina shrugged. "I can get you more than one thing," she said. For a moment, she considered taking Riven's hand to pull the soldier along, but the time for that had passed. Instead, she merely moved away and gestured. "Come."

Back up on the platform, Boram Darkwill was moving forward once more to say something after his son's failure to master the crowd. What he said, however, hardly mattered to the eldest Du Couteau child. She'd hear about it, one way or another, with more analysis than she cared to entertain, in the coming days.

All the way through the crowd and out of the ballroom, Katarina had her back to the soldier, and, for that, she was grateful. Nervous adrenaline cut through what remained of her win-induced haze, leaving her on edge. She'd left the zweihander in her personal training room instead of the practice room downstairs as Talon had suggested. Now, she questioned the wisdom of her decision. Or maybe she applauded it? Didn't she want Riven in her rooms once more?

They were walking the empty third floor hall to Katarina's quarters when Riven cleared her throat.

Katarina glanced back. "Yes?"

"I got you something," Riven said quietly.

"You did?" Katarina asked, unable to keep disbelief from her voice. She should have expected it, really, Riven had even mentioned something to that effect weeks ago, but the statement still caught the redhead off guard.

Riven nodded.

Katarina pushed the door to her chambers open and stepped inside, flipping the switch for the hextech lamps around the walls. Walking out toward the center of her sitting room, she turned to face her guest. "You first."

Standing just past the threshold of the chamber, Riven glanced over at the couch she'd sat on every other time she visited the assassin's rooms. She did not, however, move to sit down. Wordlessly, she reached into the pocket of her black trousers and produced a small box, which she held out.

Katarina took the offering.

It was, by the look of it, a jewelry box of the sort that might contain a ring or earrings. Suspicious, Katarina glanced at Riven's face, searching for some emotion she could read. She had never worn any jewelry in the soldier's presence – she never wore jewelry – so why had Riven gotten her this?

Riven's face, of course, betrayed nothing. Her shoulders, however, were tight as she leaned ever so slightly forward.

Turning her attention back to the box in her hands, Katarina slowly opened the lid, revealing a silvery necklace. Picking it up, she could tell by the weight and feel that it was made of steel instead of some soft precious metal. The ornament was a simple cross hanging from a chain, hardly one of the showy pieces that Cassiopeia loved so dearly. Between the material and design, it had a sort of strength to it and, for that reason, Katarina was willing to entertain the thought of actually wearing it.

"Why a cross?" the redhead asked.

"It's a rune," Riven said. Her voice was even and her face still maddeningly blank as she stared intently at her host.

"Like from the Freljord?" Katarina questioned.

Riven nodded. "It's for luck."

Katarina raised an eyebrow. She still recalled, vividly, how poorly the soldier had reacted when she'd suggested Riven's deceased comrades had merely been unfortunate. "You believe in luck?"

"No," answered Riven without hesitation. "You do."

Katarina blinked, taken off guard by the white-haired woman's insight. "Well," she began, trailing off. After a second of hesitation, she pulled back her thick red hair with one hand as she held the necklace up with the other. "Help me put it on."

A grin broke the soldier's stoic façade and the tension eased from her shoulders as she stepped forward, taking the chain and clasping it around the Katarina's neck. Through force of will, the assassin managed to remain completely still, even suppressing a shiver when Riven's fingers brushed against her bare skin.

As Riven stepped back, Katarina answered the woman's grin with a smile of her own. "Now it's my turn." She crossed the chamber over to the closed door of her practice room. Here, she paused and looked back to the soldier. Riven hadn't moved.

"This way," Katarina said. Not until the other woman had come to stand beside her did she push the door open.

Hextech lamps, already lit, illuminated the room beyond. Standing upright in a wooden stand was the zweihander, unwrapped and gleaming. Its razor edge bore not a single nick and the rippling patterns crossing the surface of the steel said more of its quality than words ever could.

Katarina, who had seen the blade before, watched its new owner intently.

Riven had yet to move from where she stood frozen in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at the sword before her. "Is that…" she began.

"Yours," Katarina finished.

Riven took first one slow step forward, then another. Katarina followed after her until they stood together in front of the massive weapon.

"It's beautiful," Riven breathed.

A number of responses to those words passed through Katarina's mind, but all of them would doubtless break Riven from her trance, so the assassin chose to remain silent.

Riven reached out and lifted the blade from its place with a single hand. Though she moved the steel with a weightless grace, Katarina stood close enough to see the way the soldier's muscles strained at the motion and she could hear the barest hiss of exertion escape the other woman's lips.

It was comforting to be reminded that, for all her monstrous strength, Riven was still human, still flesh and bone.

Riven stepped away from Katarina and the weapon stand, giving herself distance to make a test swing. With a precision Katarina could never hope for with so heavy a blade, the soldier moved through a training form, one Katarina recognized from the weeks they'd spent training side by side.

Growing impatient, the redhead asked, "What do you think?"

Riven stilled the motion of the blade and easily swung it up to a resting position against her shoulder. "I don't know how to thank you," she said quietly.

Katarina swallowed. "How is it? Compared to your old one?"

The soldier replied with a laugh, nervous almost, not that Riven was the sort to ever laugh nervously. "It's heavier."

"Can you use it?" Katarina asked.

"Of course," said Riven.

"Prove it." The words were familiar on Katarina's tongue, echoing something from a memory. What was it?

The first time she'd met the soldier.

Katarina smirked.

Riven grinned back and adjusted her grip on the sword. For the second time that night, her gaze drifted away from Katarina's face. "You're not dressed for it."

The assassin stretched, testing the fit and give of her clothes. She could move, as easily as she could in her working leathers. Cassiopeia had chosen well. Keenly aware of Riven's eyes on her, Katarina sauntered to the weapon rack by the door of the room. "I just won't get hit," she said.

Lifting two long daggers from their places, the redhead turned to face her opponent.

Riven was already standing, feet planted and sword raised in a guard position.

Katarina gave no warning before throwing herself forward, crossing the distance between them in a flash of red and steel.

The air filled with the scream of metal against metal when Katarina's blades collided with and skid down Riven's massive sword.

They had only sparred once before, but Katarina still remembered how Riven moved from all those weeks ago. When Riven fought, she was fast, smart, and above all else, strong.

Last time, Riven had won.

This time would be different.

This time, Katarina understood her opponent's motions. She'd seen them, yes, but, more importantly, she'd trained in them, poor as she'd been with the greatsword. When she struck, she knew how Riven would respond, and she knew why. Where her blades led, Riven followed.

Again and again, the assassin created gaps in Riven's guard and watched them close. She let them close.

Though the soldier was fighting more defensively than usual to compensate for not wearing her customary heavy armor, several of the gaps could easily have been fatal.

Facing against her, Riven growled in frustration between heavy, labored breaths.

Playful, Katarina sidestepped a swing of the soldier's sword and reached out, tapping the white-haired woman's cheek with her blade, pulling across skin with just enough pressure to draw a thin red line.

The crimson against Riven's skin, set against her white hair and black uniform, was more beautiful to Katarina than anything else she'd seen that night at the ball, from rich baubles and ornaments to even Cassiopeia standing glimmering beneath the soft hextech lamps.

Unable and unwilling to stop herself, Katarina added another cut to Riven's face, on the other cheek, a twin to the first but much deeper.

The assassin leapt back to admire her work and to give the soldier a chance to give up.

Not that she would.

Instead of lowering her blade, Riven only intensified as she charged, swinging faster and stronger without ever sacrificing her control. Though sweat ran freely over her skin and her body heaved with every gasp for air, she suffered no hesitation.

Katarina grit her teeth as she was forced into a defensive posture, just barely able to keep pace with Riven's tempo. Every time she spun out of the way of the soldier's sword, she felt she'd escaped maiming by a hair's breadth.

Looking back, Katarina would wonder if this sense of adrenaline mixed with desperation was how her opponents felt when they faced her.

In the moment, however, she had no room for such thoughts.

She had two options. She could keep dodging in hopes that Riven couldn't maintain her frenetic pace for much longer, or she could lash out, counting on Riven's sense of self-preservation to break the rhythm of the fight.

Katarina was a woman of action.

In the fraction of a second between when Riven's blade missed severing her arm and when it finished its swing, Katarina drove her knife up. She wasn't close enough to go for the kill, so she aimed for the soldier's wrist, knowing that the strain of supporting the weight of the sword would slow the woman's ability to yank it out of the way.

Forced to choose between keeping her weapon and losing her hand, Riven dropped the blade and pulled her arm back.

Katarina's knife still nicked skin.

Recalling how their last fight had gone, Katarina didn't pause to savor her victory. She followed up on her attack with a sweeping kick that caught Riven's knees and knocked the soldier's legs out from under her.

Riven tucked her chin and threw her arms out to break her fall and save her skull from cracking against the floor. When she landed, she landed like a ton of bricks and Katarina could hear the wind being knocked out of her. As the soldier started to recover, Katarina dropped down so she was kneeling next to the other woman and set the tip of her blade against Riven's chest, in the soft spot just above the sternum.

If she pressed down, first skin would break, then muscle, then the steel would slide into the soldier's windpipe and she'd suffocate on her own blood. There would be a sick gurgling and bubbling. The soldier would claw at the knife and desperately pull it free and then, only then, the blood would truly flow.

Katarina blinked. She swallowed. Her tongue felt heavy. "Do you yield?"

Riven closed her eyes and exhaled, tension ebbing from her body. She opened her eyes again. "I yield."

All she had to do was press down and the knife would-

Katarina set her blade down and offered Riven her hand, though it was hardly necessary. Still, despite being perfectly able to sit up under her own power, Riven took the help, clasping her hand around Katarina's forearm and pulling just enough to make the assassin feel useful.

"Thank you," Riven said politely.

Katarina cleared her throat to say something, though what exactly she wasn't sure. Riven's sitting up had brought their faces close and it was immensely distracting to feel the soldier's warm breath on her cheek. Again, Katarina cleared her throat. Though she'd started out looking into Riven's eyes, her gaze slipped down to the fresh wounds cut into the other woman's skin. The strangest thought occurred to her. "If my eyes were red like yours," Katarina began, "Would everything look like blood?"

Riven let out something that sounded like a snort. "Your eyes are green."

Without warning Riven leaned forward, closing the distance between them, and pressed her lips to Katarina's.

Taken by surprise, the redhead didn't respond immediately and in her moment of hesitation, she felt Riven falter. A thousand thoughts stampeded through her head, too many going too fast to seize hold of. One in particular stood out though. She couldn't make a mistake, not here, not now.

Before the soldier could pull away, though Katarina caught her shoulder and held her back, keeping her in place so she could return the kiss.

It was heated.

It was messy.

It was sloppy.

Trying to find a better angle, Katarina's nose wiped through the still-wet blood on Riven's cheek and the smell of it hit her senses, overwhelming the scent of sweat with that of metallic violence.

Riven put both hands against Katarina's shoulders and pushed down. Gently. Weakly.

It was almost insulting.

Moving quickly to take the soldier by surprise and putting her training to use, Katarina grabbed the other woman and twisted while shoving to the side. The movement was awkward, but Riven, caught off guard and in a poor position to utilize any of her greater strength or mass, toppled to the floor.

Katarina straddled the soldier and smirked.

Riven grinned and her grin morphed into a short chuckle. She moved to sit back up, already tensing to shove Katarina back.

Not thinking, Katarina reached over and snatched up her discarded knife from the floor, then set the blade against Riven's throat.

The soldier froze. Her gaze dropped, down towards the knife she couldn't quite see under her chin, then up to Katarina's face, meeting her eyes as if searching for something.

They stayed like that, unmoving, as the seconds ticked past.

Katarina swallowed.

What was she doing? Was she bluffing?

No. She couldn't be bluffing.

A threat, once offered, could not be rescinded. How many times had her father told her this? To back away was weakness.

Katarina tightened her grip on her blade and held her ground.

She was not weak.

It was Riven who broke first. Face unreadable, the soldier pulled away half an inch and settled back, resting her weight on her elbows instead of fully lying on the floor.

Katarina waited, hand still extended, knife still hovering in place.

Slowly, Riven spoke. "Put the knife away." Her words were even, without any trace of a waver or hesitation.

Katarina didn't move.

She was not weak.

Then Riven seized her wrist with one hand in a merciless, bruising grip and pushed the knife away. Even if Katarina struggled, there was no way for her to break free or redirect the course of the blade. The difference in strength was enormous. Steely red eyes bored into Katarina's green ones.

Riven sat up.

She pushed Katarina off of her.

She stood.

She straightened her uniform.

Katarina sat on the floor as Riven walked out of the room, leaving the sword where it lay.


	13. Burials: Chapter 13

A/N: Thank you to Deixis and Balabalabagan. As always. I can't do anything without ya'll.

There have been major lore changes, so, long story short - I'm holding to all the old lores as they were when I started writing this fic with the exception of the League of Legends no existing. For various reasons, I agree with Riot about getting rid of it. It did, like, completely destroy all of the plot that I had planned, but yeah... I never liked the League so I took advantage of it's disappearance to quietly edit out any mention of it in earlier chapters.

This is a short chapter because I'm trying really hard to use it to get me back into the rhythm of writing this thing. Stuff has been going on in my life. Which is why this took so long.

Oh, also, the cover art that this story now has is by TheGadgetFish (lineart) and Kalce (colors). They are both awesome and those are their tumblr names so you should check them out - the full art version is also on tumblr and it looks much better than the compressed thumbnail here.

One last little disclaimer - Katarina has a very Katarina-ish way of interpreting things. Katarina's interpretation of various events throughout this fic very rarely is the author's own interpretation. And sometimes, as in this chapter, the split is a little more pronounced.

* * *

"How." From Cassiopeia's mouth, the word was not a question but a demand.

Katarina ate her breakfast in silence. Though she'd never admit to being cowed by the younger woman, the assassin steadfastly avoided eye contact. If she didn't respond, maybe Cassiopeia would go away.

She didn't want to talk about the previous night. She didn't even want to think about it. She certainly didn't want to listen to her sister spend the morning adding to her humiliation.

Riven had shoved her off and walked out wordlessly. Katarina had done nothing to stop her.

She couldn't even decide which was worse.

Undeterred by Katarina's lack of a response, the jewel of the Noxian court continued, "I arranged everything. Perfectly. What could you have done to fail this miserably?" Her own breakfast of eggs and toast was untouched before her.

Katarina knew exactly what she'd done. She'd spent the entirety of the previous night – alone – tossing and turning and obsessing over her mistakes. Her mistake.

She shouldn't have reached for the knife.

She couldn't even recall why she'd done it. Desperation, maybe. Fear. Fear that Riven would prove stronger than her. Fear that Riven _was_ stronger than her. No woman, no man, no one had ever fought her for control before. No one had ever been able to fight her for control before.

She shouldn't have reached for the knife.

Once it had been in her hand, once it had been at Riven's throat, she'd had no choice but to keep it there. A threat given could not be taken back. To do so was weakness. But to let Riven push her down against the floor? That was weakness as well.

The assassin finished chewing her food, swallowed, and took a gulp of water. She knew what she was about to say would sound childishly defensive, but she couldn't bring herself to control her tone. It didn't matter. It was only Cass. "Why do you even care?"

Cassiopeia's green eyes narrowed. "That's not important. What is imp-

In the blink of an eye, Katarina slammed the blade she'd been cutting sausage with point down into the hardwood table. When she released it, the air hummed with the metal's quivering. "So stop," she snarled. "Mind your own business and leave me to mine."

Cassiopeia stared at the knife standing upright in the polished wood. She sniffed. "I see." With an elegant flourish, she picked up her own knife and fork and began her breakfast. The dignity in every one of her motions was stifling.

Katarina took a deep, steadying breath and then focused her attention on prying the knife free. After much effort and countless muttered curses, she managed, though the once-flawless edge had become badly bent in the process. The assassin scowled. It was nothing she couldn't fix, but it was an annoyance all the same – one more thing to add to her terrible morning.

"The general won't be happy about his table."

Despite missing his entrance, Katarina wasn't surprised by Talon's presence. Her foster brother leaned against the far wall of the dining room, nestled in a pool of shadows, assiduously avoiding the early morning light streaming through tall windows. "He'll get over it," the redhead grumbled.

"That table has been in your family for three generations," Talon said mildly.

"Four," Cassiopeia corrected.

"Then I'm sure it's seen worse," Katarina replied. "What do you want, Talon?"

Talon let out an exaggerated yawn. "I want to sleep. The general wants me to tell you to report to his study."

Confusion, and worry, replaced Katarina's foul mood. "He's here?" she asked. "At home?" For all his emphasis on family, her father spent precious little time at their estate, instead devoting his every waking hour to High Command, even sleeping there most nights of the week. A summons to his study in the mansion, while not unheard of, was a rare occurrence.

"Are you always this dense?" Cassiopeia asked.

Katarina glowered at her sister. When she turned her attention back to Talon, the younger man had vanished – no doubt to bed.

"Well, go on then," Cassiopeia said. "Don't keep daddy waiting."

Resisting the urge to throw the knife in her hand at her sister's face, Katarina sheathed the blade. Not dignifying the younger woman with a proper response, she left the table and stalked out of the room.

The assassin wasted no time in her trek to her father's study.

Upon reaching the door, however, Katarina hesitated. It was her custom to never knock on doors, but after her last meeting with her father, she felt she should. Slowly, she raised her fist to rap her knuckles against the dark oak. Even before her hand touched the wood, her father's voice rang out from the room beyond.

"Enter."

Katarina squared her shoulders and pushed the door open.

Greying head bent over paperwork at his desk, Marcus Du Couteau made no movement to acknowledge his eldest daughter. "Your sister is quite angry with you," he said. Even in the comfort of his own home he wore his uniform, pressed and starched and spotless.

Having not been invited to take a seat, Katarina stood with the open door at her back. "I don't know why," she said.

The general finished signing a page and put away his pen. Finally, he looked up. "Close the door. Sit. We need to discuss your next assignment."

Wordlessly, Katarina did as she was told. Her mind was abuzz with anticipation. An assignment meant a chance to leave the city, to travel somewhere far away, to sate her killer's instincts, to stop thinking about… to stop thinking about the distractions of her personal life. It had been a long time since she'd slid sharp steel across a man's throat. She missed it.

"Winter will soon end," the general began. He clasped his hands before him on his desk, intertwining his fingers. "The roads will open and our armies will march."

Katarina nodded. It was the same every year, going back as far as she could remember. "Of course," she said. "To Demacia – to reclaim in blood what we have lost. Darkwill said as much last night."

"And Ionia," Marcus said.

Katarina looked up slightly to meet her father's eyes – eyes as vibrant a green as her own. She slouched back in her chair, trying to wrap her head around what he'd just said. "Ionia?" She paused, then murmured, "Shon-Xan steel." All those reports she'd dragged herself through on the economics of a seemingly inconsequential island suddenly made sense.

Marcus Du Couteau nodded. "Shon-Xan steel." The general drummed his fingertips against the wood of his desk. "The second army group, what's left of it after last year, will march to Ionia," he said. "The winter muster will form a third army instead of replenishing the Second, and that third group will be the one Keiran leads against Demacia. Swain will go north to join the First and he will bring an end to that ridiculous war of attrition."

So Riven wasn't being deployed to the Freljord. The soldier would be pleased to hear that – not that Katarina would be there when she found out. Or that Katarina cared. "Then who will command the Second?" the redhead asked. "Draythe? Darius? You?" Each suggestion she made seemed more implausible than the last.

"Zaun," the general replied.

For a moment, Katarina struggled to think of a Noxian commander by that name, but then she realized. "Zaun?" she demanded. "Zaun will command one of our armies?" The words as they rolled off her tongue felt wrong. The very idea was an insult to Noxus.

"It is the price we pay for their weapons," the general said. He raised hand to forestall any further protests. "Ionia must be taken, and it must be taken quickly. This is the decision of Darkwill and High Command. It does not concern you."

"So if it doesn't concern me, what did you want to talk to me about?" Katarina's lips pressed into a thin line.

Mouth tight, Marcus Du Couteau's face was a mirror of his daughter's. His fingers continued to drum against his desk. "I'm taking you out of the field."

In an instant, Katarina was sitting up, back ramrod straight and hands clenched. "What? But I'm your best." She needed an assignment. She needed to get out of the city. She needed to fight and to kill. She needed to.

"You are one of my best," the general said. "You are also family. Trust in Noxus is hard to come by. I'm sure you know this. I trust you. You will not go to Demacia, you will not go to the Freljord, and you will not go to Ionia. Noxus needs you in the field, but our house needs you here."

Katarina slouched back once more. She forced her hands open, stretching her fingers out with no less force than she'd used to keep them curled up as fists. Anger, first seeded at the mention of Zaun and now burning on her own behalf, colored her voice. "What do you need me here for?"

The general drummed his fingertips one last time against his desk, and then laid his palm flat against the wood, motionless. "Noxus is changing. Something has spooked Darkwill – or someone. He's anxious and he's afraid. I've never seen him like this in my lifetime. If anything should happen, I need you, and Talon, here."

"So I'm to stay here and do nothing?" Katarina demanded.

"I have arranged for you to join me at High Command as my second," the general said. "I expect you to attend all meetings," he continued. "You will review documents that pass through my office. Furthermore, you-"

"Father," Katarina cut in. Her instinct was to immediately bite her tongue and stay silent as soon as the word fell out of her mouth. Never, never in her life had she cut off the general. She fought down that instinct. She was in too far now to back out. "I don't want to be in High Command. I want to be in the field."

The general fixed his daughter with steely green eyes. "We all have things we want, Katarina," he said. "Look at this as an opportunity."

"For what?" Katarina demanded.

Unblinking, the general answered, "You are among the most gifted bladesmen I have ever trained. But it seems that, to make up for your skill with a knife, you lack in everything else."

Katarina stiffened. Against her better judgment, she prompted, "What do you mean?"

The general's fingers resumed their drumming against his desk. "Riven," he said.

"Oh," Katarina replied. "Oh." Her father knew everything – both in Noxus and beneath his own roof. So of course he knew about her humiliation the previous night. Of course.

The general spoke, glacier slow, enunciating every word, "I am your commander. I am the head of your household. I am your father. I speak now as all three. I am disappointed in you."

The anger Katarina had been nursing throughout their entire conversation flared once more and she grit her teeth. "I didn't stay away from her so you took me out of the field as punishment?"

The general kept his tone even and calm. "You will not raise your voice to me."

Katarina felt the blood drain out of her face. "Yes sir." Though her rage had not subsided, her inclination to argue was gone in an instant.

Marcus Du Couteau's gaze drifted away from his child. "I expect you at my office at dawn in two days' time. Dismissed."

Still stiff, Katarina rose and turned to the door. She paused momentarily, hand hovering over the handle, waiting to see if her father would give her one parting remark, but when he did not, she finished her leaving. She closed the door softly behind her.

So that was it then.

She was to stay in Noxus.

She didn't have a choice.

No sooner than her feet had carried her safely from her father's hearing, Katarina found herself spinning and lashing out. In the blink of an eye, the black and silver vase that had sat for as long as she could remember on the table at the end of the hall was in pieces scattered across the crimson carpet.

Numb to the destruction, the assassin stared down at the wreckage.

She took a deep breath.

When she walked away, the sherds crunched beneath her boots.

She had two days. Two days to do as she pleased with before she'd be trapped in the dark halls of High Command.

Halfway back to her own quarters, Katarina stopped mid-step.

A thought, the same thought she'd had speaking with her father, the same thought she'd struggled with the previous night swirled in her mind. She'd come too far not to see matters through to their end. It was not as if her father could punish her any further. The sigh that blasted from her was a mixture of anger and frustration.

She turned around in the hall and started the long trek to the front doors of the mansion.

She needed to find Riven.


	14. Burials: Chapter 14

A/N: Thank you to my beta reader Balabalabagan. Also, to CrimsonNoble for letting me bounce ideas around at stupid o'clock in the morning as I slowly lose my sanity.

And thank you to everyone who's still with me and reading this!

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Remembering how long the journey to the military quarter was, Katarina set a brisk pace and arrived at the barracks of the Second slightly before noon, judging by the position of the sun in the sky. Just as the last time, what few men were posted at the gate failed to challenge her entrance and the scattered souls within the compound hardly raised their heads at her passing.

Freshly fallen snow crunched beneath her feet as she crossed the practice grounds. It seemed no one had swept them that morning. Though it was hard to believe possible, the barracks of the Second were even more hollowed out and dead than the last time she'd visited.

These were the men who would take Ionia?

Brushing aside dark thoughts of the future, Katarina pushed open the door to Riven's company hall and strode down the dim corridor within.

She had no idea what she was going to say or do.

A hundred possibilities had tumbled through her head on the long walk down the mountain that was Noxus.

She'd played each one of them out, scenario after scenario.

None of them had ended well.

None of them had ended with her getting what she wanted.

For a time now, she'd allowed herself to think that she merely wanted Riven's body. It was an easy thought, a familiar thought, one that sat well with her. It was something she understood. And she did want Riven – she wanted Riven under her, covered in sweat, jaw clenched, right on the edge of losing her infuriating self-control.

But she wanted Riven clothed as well. She wanted Riven, dressed in arms and armor, on her knees, covered in still-warm blood, the reward of violence, exhausted having fought, truly fought with everything she had, and lost, acknowledging her – acknowledging her strength and her skill and surrendering to it.

She wanted both things at the same time. Somehow.

And she wanted… more than she wanted Riven to stay, she wanted Riven to want her back.

Several times she'd considered simply turning around, going up the mountain, spending the day training, venting herself against dummies.

But she couldn't do that, not really. There was an enormous Noxian zweihander lying on the floor of her practice room and she didn't have the strength to move it. She could ask for help, of course, but admitting defeat to her family was even worse than admitting defeat to herself.

So there she was, walking down the hall without a plan except to barge into Riven's room and figure things out from there.

She was a Du Couteau. She hated not having a plan.

Katarina didn't hesitate at the captain's threshold, shoving the door open violently enough that it would serve to announce her presence to even the most inattentive of occupants.

The windowless room was dark and empty.

At first, as her eyes adjusted to the absence of light, Katarina worried that she'd come to the wrong place. But no, although there were no personal items of sentimental value littering the chamber, one of Riven's uniforms, the old grey one, hung from its rack and the soldier's distinctive armor chest rested at the foot of the perfectly made bed. The shards of her sword were gone.

Katarina scowled. None of her many failed attempts to plan had accounted for Riven simply not being there.

She felt like a fool.

The soldier was doubtless away on some sort of business. If only one dress uniform hung in place, Riven was wearing the other.

Fine then. So Riven wasn't there. But this was Riven's room, Riven's home. The captain would return eventually.

She could wait.

Without turning on a light, Katarina moved to sit on the soldier's bed. She crossed her arms, slouched back slightly, and settled down to stare at the door.

Barely half an hour later, she conceded that no, she could not wait.

Katarina pushed herself up and began to pace the small room. Four steps one way, turn, four steps the other way, turn. A fifth step and she'd bump into one of the walls.

Half an hour turned into an hour.

When Riven came through the door, the soldier would be angry. This fact Katarina anticipated with certainty. Anger was something she understood well. It boiled and seethed and burned and it didn't abate until it was satisfied. Riven had been angry the night before. What else could have caused her to leave? Not even a day later, Katarina knew the soldier would be angry still.

So there would be anger. And what else? What then?

Katarina quietly swore as a snide thought occurred to her. If only she had her sister's skill with words rather than her own talent for bloodshed.

An hour turned into two hours.

Two hours turned to three and Katarina had had enough. Outside, she knew, the short winter sun was already brushing against the horizon. Three hours and she still didn't have a plan. Three hours and Riven still hadn't returned. It was plain to the assassin that she was wasting her time. Mind made up, on her fourth restless step, she turned towards the door instead of the other wall and marched out of the tiny room.

She half expected to meet Riven in the hallway.

She didn't.

She more than half expected to encounter Riven as she waded through the frozen and unswept grounds of the Second's compound.

She didn't.

As she slowly traveled back up the mountain of Noxus, Katarina kept glancing this way and that, her attention caught by flurries of snow that, from the corner of her eye, could have been a clump of white hair bobbing along the other side of the street.

By the time she reached her home once more, she was exhausted beyond reason. The sun had long since set. Katarina took an early dinner in the kitchen, then climbed the stairs to her quarters, then fell into her bed, sleep taking her nearly instantly.

She dreamt of Riven and when she woke her sheets were tangled in a pile on the floor.

At breakfast, all it took was a glare to convince Cassiopeia to shut her mouth with a sharp click of her teeth. Talon, of course, was still asleep and the general was nowhere to be seen, doubtless already away from the mansion on business.

Having only picked at her food, Katarina abandoned dining room early, leaving her plate half-finished. Instead of ascending back up to her apartments and her study – she'd have more than enough time for paperwork over the coming weeks and months – she slipped down the stairs to the Du Couteau family training room.

Cut into the mountain and far too old for modern heating, the basement was cold to the point that Katarina's exhalations misted in the air before her. The chill seeped through her leathers and skin and down into her bones and when she spun a knife in her hand experimentally, her fingers were slow to move. The razor sharp steel nicked skin, drawing a red line across her left thumb. Surprised by the sudden sting, Katarina dropped the blade with a loud curse.

She'd fumbled. She never fumbled.

It was only a shallow cut, barely a scratch, but it was there. Her body wasn't hurt, not really, but her pride stung.

Letting out a frustrated growl, Katarina snatched her fallen knife up from the floor and hurled it into the heart of a fallen dummy in the far corner of the room. It hit dead center with a dull thud. The assassin stalked over to the thing and yanked it free of straw and canvas, then shoved it unceremoniously back into its sheathe.

A day now she'd spent furiously pacing the corridors of her mind. She couldn't think anymore. She couldn't wait anymore. She needed to move. She needed to fight. She needed to lose herself. Training dummies weren't enough.

Filled with a steadily growing rage, Katarina strode back out of the practice room.

So her father wanted her to go to High Command? Fine. She would go to High Command.

Now that she had some semblance of a plan to follow, it seemed to take no time at all for Katarina to make her way to the peak of the mountain, the palatial seat of Noxus, and the practice courts in its basement.

Judging from the lack of the clanging sounds of steel there was no match in progress and so, though she'd been there only once before, Katarina strode into the room as if she owned it. In a matter of time, she knew, she would.

Despite the silence, there were other people in the room. A handful of men she didn't recognize sat on the benches along the walls. None of them had sweat beaded on their brows. They were here to converse, to relax, not to fight. It was shameful. None of them gave her so much as a second look as she entered. They didn't care.

Katarina's lips pressed into a thin line. She would make them care.

The redhead stalked up to the nearest man, grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and jerked him forward. Taken by surprise, he hardly resisted. He even paused, staring at her hand before raising his own in an attempt to work himself free.

"Fight me," Katarina snarled, releasing him and stepping back before he could lay a hand on her. In a single motion, practiced and smooth, she drew a pair of long knives.

The man smoothed out his shirt as he stood. Full of pride, he sneered and took up a sword from where it lay unsheathed by his side on the bench.

Though he was young, still in his prime, and handsomely muscled, he fought like a child.

Even Draven, obnoxious and arrogant as he was, at least knew how to handle his weapon.

Katarina could not say the same of her first opponent. He fell so quickly she didn't even take note of how it was she'd defeated him. Ignoring the heap of a man on the floor clutching at the deep gash through his bicep, Katarina pointed to another man. "You," she said.

The second man was just as disappointing as the first. The third man was slightly better but so filled with fear he could hardly move, much less fight. After him, Katarina stopped keeping count and stopped bothering to distinguish between her victims. In less than an hour's time she'd cut down every man who'd been in the room when she'd entered and also all the glory-seeking men who'd come running down to the basement as soon as they heard what she was doing.

Out of boredom, she began challenging them two at a time, then three at a time.

It still wasn't enough.

She was tired, exhausted even, and slowly seeping blood from countless shallow nicks – nothing so serious as to cost her the fight or cause her to yield, but it still wasn't enough.

None of them were enough.

Bending down with her foot on a defeated opponent's back to yank her knife free of him, a shadow fell across Katarina's vision. Fine. Another opponent then. Someone else to beat into the ground. She looked up.

"What are you doing?" asked General Marcus DuCouteau.

Katarina snapped up to attention immediately, pulling her knife up with her. Judging from the desperate moan, the blade's exit caused just as much pain as its entry. "Sir," she said.

"I asked you a question," the general replied. Although he was surrounded on all sides by men covered in blood and sweat, many having abandoned their self-respect to quietly whimper, his presence was such that he made himself the center of all attention in the room, standing above it all, wearing his clean and perfectly pressed uniform.

Katarina swallowed. She had known her father all her life and while he appeared calm, she could hear the traces of anger lacing his tone. "I'm training, sir," she said.

Faster than Katarina could follow, knives appeared in her father's hands. "Then train with someone worth your while," he said.

Even fresh and uninjured, Katarina was no match for the general. Slowed by a day of nearly nonstop combat, it was all she could do keep up and even at that, she failed. Again and again steel whispered across her skin, wielded with such control and precision that, though she felt its passing, no bloom of crimson followed, no cut was made.

She was furious she was being toyed with, but more than that, swamping that, she was desperate to fight harder, faster, to at least acquit herself well in a battle she knew she'd already lost. Laying faith on the thought that her father wouldn't go so far as to maim or kill her, Katarina flew into an offensive flurry, throwing wilder and wilder swings, none of which connected.

Half-way through a particularly sloppy blow, Katarina felt her arm come to a sudden, jerking halt, nearly ripping her joints out of alignment. The general had a hand around her wrist in a crushing grip. There was just enough time for Katarina's eyes to widen before she was flying across the room, thrown like a ragdoll.

She landed heavily on top of some man who'd crawled back to the far wall to lick his wounds. Ignoring her cushion, she staggered to her feet, prepared to fight once more. Even in her fall, she hadn't dropped her knives.

The general, however, had already put his blades away. "Katarina," he said. "Go home." He turned and, without once looking back, left the room. Katarina's tired mind noted that, even after dancing in the puddled blood that covered the floor, his uniform was still immaculate.

Bending down, the redhead wiped her knives clean on the nearest piece of cloth she could find. It was someone's shirt. He was too far gone to protest.

Slowly, she made her way back out of the basement of High Command and through the gilded hallways of the palace. All the cuts and bruises of her day, all the exertion, suddenly came crashing down on her and she felt as if she wouldn't be able to drag herself home. Still, she placed one foot in front of the other. Collapsing in public was not an option. Doubtless, blood dripped behind her across rich carpets. She hardly cared. Either the servants would clean it or they wouldn't. The carpets of Noxus were no strangers to blood.

Retrieving her coat at the front door, Katarina heard a familiar voice. She froze, ears straining to make out words from a distance.

"-vanguard of the campaign." That was Darius' voice, deep and gruff.

"I don't want this." And that was Riven.

Katarina turned, eyes scanning the entrance hall. At the far end she saw them, the general and the captain, deep in conversation and not looking up to notice her staring.

"No one wants this," Darius said with a shake of his head. "It's disgraceful."

Riven said something in reply, but her voice was soft and she'd gone too far to be heard.

Part of Katarina demanded that, though she was exhausted and covered in blood, she stride over to the two, grab Riven by the shoulder and – well, she didn't know what after that. It was not a large part though, or it was not strident enough or it was drowned out by her cowardice. She didn't move.

Before long, Riven and Darius had turned a corner, passing out of sight.

Katarina grimaced and finished putting on her coat. Gathering up the remains of her willpower, she turned and headed for home.


	15. Burials: Chapter 15

A/N: Wow, CrimsonNoble has the *fastest* turnaround time of any beta reader I've worked with...

Hello greetings from the middle of my 11 day work week don't mind me as I go die in a corner now. I write fic when I'm stressed and procrastinating, so I'm posting this so that I stop working on it and actually do, like, my real work.

Also, thank you to all ya'll readers for sticking with me! Enjoy!

* * *

High Command was and was not everything that Katarina had feared.

Her father's power kept many of the more trivial aspects of the Noxian bureaucracy at bay. The general had no time for the petty squabbles of minor aristocrats nor did he concern himself with the affairs of the army. Instead, his attention focused on the vast network of Noxian agents spread across Valoran and, indeed, all of Runeterra.

What this meant was that, though he dealt little with politics, his dark oak desk was perpetually buried in paper.

The sheer number of reports that Katarina's father read in a single hour was staggering and the number of reports that he expected her to read in a single hour was no less horrific. On her first day, by late-morning Katarina's mind was already reeling from the amount of information that had passed through it and her vision blurred as she stared down at something about lost honor and a transfer of power in the Demacian House Laurent.

Apparently it had all come down to a duel and the lord's daughter had bested him with a sword.

It didn't say what kind of sword, but Katarina would bet her best knife it had been a slight thing, a court sword, nothing able to compare to the hulking mass of steel that was a Noxian zweihander, or even a Demacian greatsword. And the girl? Surely she was just as weak as her weapon. Surely she was nothing compared to Riven.

A soft scoff slipped from the assassin's lips. Still her thoughts were occupied with the soldier. It was pathetic.

"Katarina."

Slouched in her uncomfortable wooden chair, Katarina looked up. Her father had left his desk to stand over her. Sullenly, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, ignoring twinges of pain that shot through her tired body – reminders of the previous day's mistakes. "Sir?"

"Your mind has wandered," the general said. It was not a question.

Katarina bit back a snide remark and remained silent.

Face blank, the general plucked the Demacian report from his daughter's hands and placed it on his desk. He turned towards the door. "Come with me."

Aware that it was not the time for questions, Katarina rose to follow. The elder Du Couteau led them through the winding corridors of High Command and it was not long until Katarina began to recognize where they were and to suspect their destination. They had passed from the more luxurious precincts of the compound down into bare and cold basement.

A flame of excitement sprung to life in Katarina's chest. It had been years since her father had deigned to instruct his eldest child in bladework. When Katarina had been a child, the general had worked with her until it was clear she had an aptitude for the knife above all else and then he had handed her education over to the various master trainers of the Noxian elite. Instruction from these men, he had said, would be no different than instruction from him except that they had years of experience teaching all men, from recruits to skilled agents, and he did not. If anything, the general had explained, training beneath these other blademasters would be far more effective. His logic had been as sound as it was cold and Katarina had never protested it nor begged otherwise.

Now though, now something had changed.

As she walked, Katarina's fingers drummed against the hilt of one of her blades in anticipation.

That day, the practice courts were not silent. Mingled laughter, a man's and a woman's, echoed down the long stone corridor, along with the occasional grunt of pain.

Marcus Du Couteau swept into the training room with little regard for whatever combat may have been in progress and Katarina, ever so slightly less confident in her skills and ever so slightly more concerned for her safety, hesitated and then followed nearly a full two steps behind.

Upon seeing the room's occupants, the assassin went stiff.

Laughter brought to a sudden halt, Darius, Draven, and Riven, all three stripped to the waist, covered in gleaming sweat and more than a few bruises, snapped to salute General Du Couteau at his entrance. In their hands were the weighted training staves the infantry used for sparring practice. Heavy and blunt, in the hands of most soldiers they posed little danger to a man in armor. Against flesh, however, an unchecked blow could easily break bones.

Even saluting, Draven looked insufferably smug and offensively vain. His long hair was pushed back and held in place with a headband – perhaps it was acceptable for a Piltoverian or a Zaunite, but it was a ridiculous fashion for a Noxian man. Katarina was pleased to note that, of the three, Draven was covered in more bruises by far.

Darius was just as imposing without his shirt as he was in full armor. Though giant men with giant muscles were a common sight in Noxus, few possessed the self-confidence of the lieutenant general. For all their differences, standing side by side, it was plain as day that Darius and Draven were cut from the same cloth.

And then there was Riven. Sweat dripped down to the floor from the few strands of hair she hadn't managed to tie back and, as she stood at attention, her shoulders rose and fell heavily from previous exertion. The long, jagged, scar from Darius' axe rolled across the woman's collarbone before vanishing beneath white chest-bindings and then reappearing, sweeping across the toned muscles of her abdomen and finally tapering to an end above the hem of her trousers.

Katarina swallowed and did her best to ignore the sudden flush of heat that crashed through her body. She prayed to whatever gods might exist that it didn't show on her face. It was hardly the time.

For her part, the white haired soldier was steadfastly staring at the assassin's father. Not once had her eyes strayed towards Katarina. Darius and Draven had both spared her a glance. Riven's refusal, then, had to be purposeful.

It wasn't fair. Katarina couldn't take her eyes off of Riven, but Riven wouldn't even acknowledge Katarina's presence.

"At ease," ordered General Du Couteau.

Draven relaxed into his usual arrogant pose, arms crossed, weight thrown onto one leg, mouth frozen in the hint of half smile. "Good morning, general," he drawled. "Fancy seeing you here."

"We were just leaving, sir," Darius cut in. He and Riven both had dropped out of their salutes but remained stiff.

From the look of shock on Draven's too-easy-to-read face, it was clear both that he was indignant at being interrupted and that they had been doing no such thing. If he wanted to say anything to that effect, however, he found some shred of wisdom and kept his mouth shut.

Katarina's father turned his head to look at his daughter from the corner of his eye. After a long moment, he turned back to the other general. "This is the soldier you recommended for promotion?"

Darius nodded.

Marcus' attention turned to Riven. "Congratulations, commander," he said.

Eyes still locked on her superior, Riven replied, "Thank you, sir."

"I have a request of you," General Du Couteau continued. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Darius, you and your brother are dismissed."

Darius shifted, beginning to leave, but then stopped. Cautiously, he began, "Sir, Riven-

"Riven is busy," Draven said. His older brother put a hand to his shoulder to stop him, but he charged ahead anyways. "She's-

"Delayed by my authority," Marcus finished sharply. "Nothing of any consequence will occur at your meeting. Darkwill's mind will not be changed on the matter of Ionia. Dismissed."

The lieutenant general grimaced, not bothering to hide his displeasure. He could not ignore such an order from the second most powerful man in Noxus. "Yes sir." With a wave for Draven to follow him, Darius lumbered to the exit and retrieved his shirt from where he'd left it on the floor. Draven, apparently at ease walking the corridors of High Command half-clothed, waited for his sibling. They left together, leaving their practice staves by the door. Though Darius looked steadfastly ahead, Draven turned back towards Riven and gave her a small shrug accompanied by a slight frown before vanishing around the corner.

Katarina's father waited until the two men were gone before speaking again to Riven. "I would like you to spar with my daughter."

If Riven felt anything at all about this request, she hid it from her perfectly blank face. She acted as if she and Katarina were complete strangers. "Yes sir. What weapons?"

"Whichever either of you prefer," Marcus answered. Saying no more, he stepped aside to sit on one of the low benches built into the walls of the practice room.

Riven stepped backwards, towards the open center of the room, ignoring the dried blood, doubtless the remnants of the previous day's carnage, beneath her boots. She set her feet into position. She toyed with her stave, holding it first with one hand, then with two, then switching back to her one-handed grip, positioning it as she would her sword. Satisfied with her stance, she looked, finally, to Katarina.

Under the scrutiny of red eyes, before she could check herself, the redhead grimaced. She knew that by all rights she should be eager for the opportunity to duel the soldier a third time. It was a chance to prove her strength once more, to demand the white haired woman's attention, to snatch at whatever it was she'd fumbled over and lost. But… Not in front of her father. Fighting for a spectator, especially one who mattered as much as Marcus Du Couteau, changed everything.

Her father's gaze intensified Katarina's desperate need to win, but it also provoked a poison fear of defeat. More than anything, the assassin felt she could not afford to lose with the general watching.

Walking out onto the court, Katarina drew her knives.

She could have opted for one of the staves as Riven had, but she chose not to. If she lost holding a staff, she could blame her failure on inexperience with the weapon. If she fought with her blades, however, she was far more likely to win – and she had to win.

She had to win.

Katarina repeated the line to herself like a mantra in her head as she gauged her opponent. The stave in Riven's hands was shorter than her usual sword, but it was no doubt lighter and the difference in speed would likely compensate for the lesser reach. In Katarina's advantage was Riven's lack of armor. Just as the last time they'd fought, the soldier would be unable to fight as she did in the field. Her arsenal of defensive motions would be limited.

The assassin darted forward, feinting to Riven's non-weapon side, watching for a half-begun block to change to a full parry at the last moment as the soldier remembered her situation.

Katarina watched, but it never came.

Riven stepped aside and responded with a brutal swing to Katarina's midsection, forcing the redhead to twist mid-leap, sending her gracefully spiraling a hair's breadth overtop of the weapon.

Katarina landed lightly on her feet and growled in frustration. Riven had learned from their last duel and she'd adapted. So be it. Katarina should have expected it. Riven wasn't dumb. What was more surprising was the ferocity with which the soldier had made her counter attack. If it had connected, and it nearly had, it would have shattered ribs, or worse.

Katarina would never have accused Riven of pulling her punches – that wasn't the Noxian way – but it was abundantly clear that the soldier was fighting for a kill. Though the assassin was not given to poetics, it seemed that Riven's red eyes were burning.

Adrenaline slammed through Katarina's body in an overpowering, intoxicating rush.

She adjusted her grip on her blades, feeling the worn leather wraps beneath her fingers.

Riven lunged.

Caught off guard, Katarina stumbled backwards, just out of reach of the staff. Fighting on instinct, she recovered and pushed off from the floor in a flash, driving forward, knives outstretched to rip her opponent's stomach open. Just as quickly, Riven spun to the side, letting her stave slip through her fingers until she held it by its midpoint, allowing her to counterstrike at Katarina's back with what had formerly been the grip end of her weapon.

The unexpected strike glanced off of Katarina's hip painfully. Ignoring the sensation, the assassin kept to her training and rolled, bringing her safely out of the soldier's range.

She let her anger flare to life, ready to feed her violence on it.

Riven was strong, but so was Katarina. To be struck so early in their match, to be hurt – this was unacceptable. For it, Riven would bleed.

The assassin threw herself forward, a whirlwind of steel, met always by an equally furious defense that at times blurred into blows and counterblows, forcing Katarina to protect herself, and quite possibly her life.

If there were any missed opportunities to seize victory, they passed so quickly and Katarina was so lost in the moment that she failed to see them, even in retrospect.

Anger blazed into brilliant rage.

The woman's laughter she'd heard coming down the hallway had been Riven's.

Katarina hadn't recognized it because she had heard Riven laugh only once and it had been a short, weak, and nervous thing, not at all kin to the lilting sound that had echoed down the hall.

Riven would laugh for Darius, for Draven even, but not for her.

Katarina knew the moment that her motions became too wild, but she couldn't reign herself in. She was so close and – there – an incautious blade scraped over Riven's skin, ripping open a shallow gash at the base of her neck, intersecting and near perpendicular to the massive scar that dominated her torso.

The redhead had no chance to savor her victory. The butt of Riven's staff slammed dead on into her shoulder, knocking her to the ground several feet back. Overwhelmed by the explosion of agony, Katarina couldn't properly land and her head cracked into the stone floor, briefly blacking out her vision.

By the time Katarina regained some semblance of consciousness, Riven was leaving the room and her father was walking towards her where she lay.

Marcus Du Couteau's frown of disapproval hurt more than Katarina's shoulder ever could.

"You lack restraint," he said.

"Yes sir," Katarina mumbled.

"Someday you will die for this," he said.

Katarina closed her eyes. "Yes sir."

"Do you know where the healers are?"

"No sir."

"Get up," the general ordered.

As quickly as she could manage, Katarina lurched to her feet. One arm hung limp at her side. Riven's blow had dislocated her shoulder, or worse. It took all her willpower not to hiss in pain as every little movement jostled the injury.

Katarina's father led her back up into High Command proper, through the luxurious halls to a small infirmary. To Katarina's chagrin, as if her day could become any worse, she recognized the medical summoner who greeted them upon their arrival. It was the same short, pushy, man who'd tried to block her way beneath the arena.

She was sure that he was gloating the entire time he reset her shoulder and did whatever else it was he needed to do to it. Katarina was almost certain he handled her in the most painful way possible. She had had dislocated shoulders before, but the process of healing them by sorcery had never been so miserable. Still though, she refused to whimper. Not in front of her father, who stood silently watching, and certainly not in front of the insufferable summoner. She also held her tongue when the summoner explained, a certain glint in his eye all the while, that the occasional shooting agony in her shoulder was normal and would continue for a week. She knew from experience that he could snap his fingers and take away the pain if he were so inclined, be she would rather hurt than swallow her pride and complain.

When the ordeal at the infirmary was over, mid-day had long passed. The general guided them back into the labyrinth of the Noxian seat, making his way towards his unmarked office.

As soon as they entered, it was clear that someone had been there while they were gone.

The countless papers, left strewn about when they'd left, were stacked neatly on the general's desk. Katarina's chair, which she'd dragged over to the far wall to safely tip backwards in, was back in its customary position in the center of the room. A single black rose lay on the chair's seat.

Katarina was still mid-step crossing the threshold of the office when her father roughly shoved her back out. "Leave," he said. "Go elsewhere. Immediately."

Taken aback, Katarina started, "Wha-

She was abruptly cut off by the door closing in her face.

For a brief moment, Katarina stood stock still in shock, but she then hastily moved away from the door. Her father's order had been to leave and, though she burned with curiosity, and some small degree of worry, experience had taught her to obey and trust the general. She did, nevertheless, hover about at the end of the corridor for some time, waiting and watching. No one came and, in the end, Katarina was miserable at patience.

She was also miserable at boredom, that constant blight on her winter months, and boredom was where her father's abrupt dismissal left her.

Katarina had expected to spend her entire day, even her evening, trailing after the general as he went about his business. Now, shut out of his office, she had no paperwork to pour over and, given the state of her shoulder, no ability even to train in the courts.

The redhead let out a frustrated snarl, then slumped against a wall of the deserted hallway.

What did other people do when they were restless and bored?

The memory of Darius, Draven, and Riven all together, all laughing, flashed through Katarina's head.

Riven laughed for them.

Katarina shoved herself off the wall. If Riven was a commander now, she had an office somewhere in High Command. It was probably no more than a broom closet, but perhaps she would be there.

Even if Riven wanted nothing to do with Katarina, Katarina wanted to see Riven.

Course determined, the scion of the Du Couteau cast her eyes about the corridor. When she looked for them, she saw the servants of High Command – men dressed in the livery of Noxus, men so low she was usually barely aware of their presence. A few words and a few coins was all it took to discover the location of High Command's newest addition. It seemed Riven's sudden arrival had not gone unnoticed.

Not surprisingly, the freshly minted commander's office was located in a far corner of the basement. Only the rich or powerful received spacious suites along the upper corridors of the compound. The small army of commanders and most of High Command's staff were housed on the first floor and below.

Finding Riven's cell to be unoccupied and unlocked, Katarina let herself in. A flick of the switch by the door brought a dim hextech bulb dangling from the ceiling to life.

The office was as sparse as Riven's quarters in her barracks. Of course, the soldier had barely had time to move into the space, but Katarina suspected it would never house more than it did at that moment. In the center of the room stood a small desk, covered in papers, and chair. The room held nothing else.

Idly, the assassin seated herself in Riven's chair and began to riffle through the documents strewn about. Nearly all of them were the day-to-day operations of a company: requisitions for supplies, reports on consumption, payrolls. It was clear from the handwriting, the elegant cursive of a scribe, that Riven had neither penned nor read them. One or two lay in tattered pieces, crumpled up and destroyed in frustration.

Katarina found herself frowning. She knew that Riven was strong and more than capable of commanding men in the field. Few deserved promotion more than the white haired woman. The paperwork involved with higher command, however, was utterly beyond the soldier.

On an impulse, the redhead began sorting through the documents, piling them up by subject and urgency. Having nothing better to do, she even read a few of them, browsing the lists of names and ranks and salaries. She did not become so engrossed in her work, however, that she missed Riven's return.

Fully clothed now in a uniform displaying the insignia of her new rank, Riven wordlessly advanced to stand before the room's desk, opposite Katarina. Behind her, the door stood open. With Katarina sitting, for once the soldier towered over her, impossibly imposing, casting a dark shadow across the paper the assassin had been reviewing.

The assassin smirked up at the other woman, displaying all the confidence she didn't feel. "Can I help you?"

"My lady Du Couteau," Riven replied stiffly. "Why are you here?"

Katarina carefully laid down the piece of paper, smoothing it against the desk. She looked back up at Riven.

It was not entirely accurate to say that the soldier was fully clothed. She wore her uniform shirt partly undone at the top, preventing the cut Katarina had inflicted earlier, brown now with dried blood, from chafing against cloth. The way Riven's collar lay open, leaving maybe a handsbreadth of skin exposed seemed like an invitation to finish the job of ripping the garment off.

Katarina cleared her throat. "I wanted to see you."

Riven stared down at her, red eyes cold. Though she said nothing, the message was clear. She had been seen. Katarina could go now.

Sudden, blazing anger flashed through Katarina's veins. She would not be ignored. Not at all thinking, she stood, in an instant becoming taller once more. She leaned forward slightly, grabbed the front of Riven's half-buttoned shirt and dragged the shocked soldier forward into a kiss.

For a moment, a brief moment, Riven started to reciprocate. The moment ended. The other woman shoved Katarina back, sending her stumbling into the chair behind her, nearly using enough force to throw her into the far wall.

Riven straightened and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

Katarina's hands balled into fists at the insult, nails biting hard into skin. She took a deep breath. She forced her hands to unfurl.

Katarina had been seen. She could go now.

She was going to go nowhere.

Slowly, Katarina reached for one of the knives at her side.

Riven did nothing so cowardly as taking a step back, but every muscle in her frame went taut in anticipation.

Katarina drew the knife.

And then she threw it across the room to a far corner.

She knew what she'd done wrong before. And now she knew how to fix it.

Another knife followed, and then an entire belt of weapons, and then another until her entire arsenal lay out of reach.

Through the entire process, Riven remained tense but impassive, always watching. Even when Katarina stepped forward again, again pulled the soldier in for a kiss, she remained stiff. Fueled by desperation now, Katarina tried to pull Riven closer, but a hand on her shoulder – her good shoulder – stopped her. Reluctantly, she let go.

Maddeningly blank, maddeningly distant, Riven turned away and walked towards the door.

Katarina wanted to scream, but she didn't.

She'd had her chance.

It was over.

She wasn't a child.

Riven reached the threshold but didn't cross it. She stood there for a moment, motionless. She set her hand on the latch and pulled the door closed.


	16. Burials: Chapter 16

A/N: Thank you to Deixis, CrimsonNoble, and multishep for beta'ing duties. These people are truly wonderful and they make sure that I don't do stupid things.

As you may have noticed, this chapter took a while. My life is hectic. Thank you to everyone who reviews and says nice things and asks about the next chapter - it brings me back and keeps me motivated when I wander off to other things (thank you also to my friends who bug me about this fic, it's quite nice to know that people care). Hopefully you enjoy this chapter! I've got a basic idea of the plot from this point to the end (because yes, Riven does have to go to Ionia eventually) and, with any luck, the entire fic will be complete before my gap year is over (so don't worry about two months with no update, I'm still working on this, I promise).

* * *

For a long time, Riven stood at the closed door, hand still resting on the brass handle like a silent threat, uniformed back facing the assassin. She neither moved nor spoke.

When she finally turned, it was not towards Katarina.

She crossed the chamber, steps echoing in the frigid air. Coming to a stop at the pile of steel, she bent down. When she stood again, she held an unsheathed blade in her hand before her. She stared at it. The metal glimmered in the yellow light of the room's single bare hextech bulb. Still not facing the assassin, Riven spoke, her words sharp and angry. "You think I'm afraid of this?"

Katarina's reply was immediate and thoughtless, matching Riven's tone - a challenge. "Aren't you?"

Riven's scoff was quiet, but the room was silent and the noise carried. The soldier dropped the knife, tip first. It clattered against the stone floor, hewn from the heart of Noxus.

Katarina winced. She knew the damage that stone did to sharp steel.

Finally, finally the soldier turned towards the assassin. Disgust lit her red eyes with fire.

She took first one step, then another towards the other woman. Her pace quickened and the distance between them collapsed.

As Riven approached, Katarina felt the soldier's presence as a suffocating weight. Fear lanced into her gut like a knife from behind. In equal measure to her fear, though, she felt confusion and indignant anger. What had she done to prompt such a response?

Instinctively, Katarina groped for the blade kept always at her side. It wasn't there. Her hand closed on air, then clenched into a fist before, slowly, she forced her fingers to uncurl, as if by relaxing her grip she could relax her mind as well.

The office was tiny and, though there was a desk between Katarina and door, it would have been a simple matter for the assassin to leave. But she stood her ground.

She wouldn't run.

She wasn't Riven.

The soldier's advance halted barely a foot from the assassin. Her eyes raked over Katarina's body from head to toe. With a hand, she gestured to indicate the redhead's form. Her voice was cold. "You think I want this?"

Katarina's lips pressed into a tight line. She had no response.

In a blink, Riven's hand shot out. She seized the Katarina by her injured shoulder and dragged the assassin forward and down so that their faces hovered barely an inch apart.

Katarina's expression twisted into a snarl as she bit back a pained whimper. Yanked off balance by the soldier, she found her feet once more. She grabbed Riven's wrist, squeezing as tightly as she could but not trying to pull Riven off. It was a fight she wouldn't win and a fight she couldn't afford to lose.

Strength.

Power.

Control.

These were the tenants of Noxus and the struggle for them, for the display of them, was as familiar to Katarina as her discarded knives. Fighting to keep her feet against the crashing waves of pain radiating from her shoulder, Katarina understood Riven perfectly.

Respect. Riven wanted respect.

"Don't touch me," the assassin said. Into her voice she poured all her pride and confidence, giving it the weight of an order.

Riven remained unmoved. Their faces were still a breath apart. "Is that what you want?"

Instincts born of a lifetime in Noxus guided the assassin's free hand. She grabbed a fistful of Riven's black shirt and pulled. Force for force. Their noses touched. "I want you."

Riven's eyes, dark amber in the dim light of the room, bored into Katarina's green ones. "I'm not yours."

Having abandoned everything now to her instincts, Katarina spared no thoughts for her words. "You could be."

Riven's response came just as quick. "Why?"

There was a moment of hesitation.

The space between them held constant.

And then the space was gone - Katarina closed it in a heartbeat. She didn't have words to answer Riven with. She barely understood Riven's question. But she had actions and actions were preferable to words in any case.

This time when they kissed, instead of shoving her away, Riven pulled the assassin closer, closer, until their bodies pressed tight together. Iron fingers dug into Katarina's shoulder, sending a fresh wave of tremors through her, reminding her that, before, the soldier had been using but a fraction of her strength - was still using only a fraction of her strength. Caught up in the taste of Riven on her lips, Katarina hardly cared.

Katarina let go of Riven's wrist and pulled back just enough to scramble at the buttons of the soldier's shirt. She didn't bother looking down at her hands. She'd pulled enough uniforms off of enough Noxian officers to know what she was doing. This was the first time, though, she'd felt the curve, slight and bound though it was, of a woman's chest under the stiff black fabric of the infantry's regimentals. If her mouth hadn't been thoroughly occupied, she would have smirked at the thought.

When the assassin had gotten the last button loose, Riven finally broke their kiss and let go of Katarina's shoulder to shrug off the shirt. It took barely a second, but watching the soldier undress felt like an eternity - and then it was over because Riven was close again, one hand around the back of Katarina's head, pulling her down into another kiss, the other hand fumbling the silver buckle of the assassin's belt.

Katarina slipped her own hands around the soldier's waist. Riven's skin felt like scars - new scars, old scars, well-healed scars, and some scars that were jagged, broken, ridges.

For an instant, in the face of a lifetime of campaigns and pitched battles, Katarina felt young.

She faltered.

Already tugging Katarina's leathers loose, Riven paused as well. The soldier pulled back a little, gaze searching, confusion evident on her features.

Angry at her own hesitation, at her moment of insecurity, Katarina flowed back into motion, faster now, fingers digging into scarred skin like she had something to prove, and Riven reciprocated with equal ferocity. Katarina wasn't young. She wasn't scared. She wasn't weak. Her teeth found the thick muscle at the base of the soldier's neck and bit down, eliciting a sharp intake of breath.

Riven tasted like salty sweat.

Riven wasn't weak either.

Riven was strong, her body hard contours of muscle, and she burned like a furnace. Somewhere in the back of Katarina's mind she wondered at how cold she must feel to Riven if touching Riven felt like touching fire to her.

Katarina's back hit the wall and - and when was it that Riven had maneuvered them like that? Not that it mattered. The assassin's breath hitched and-

Katarina looked down, puzzled. Her leather pants were still at mid-thigh. Riven was glaring at them with a look caught halfway between intense concentration and total indignation. Riven gave them another tug. They didn't budge. Several heartbeats passed. The soldier looked up, then shrugged.

Katarina blinked. Several more heartbeats passed. Then, without meaning to at all, the assassin let a laugh slip from her lips. It was hardly a laugh, even, more like a surprised chuckle, but, whatever it was, it drew out a laugh, a real laugh, from the white haired soldier. To the assassin, it sounded like victory. And then Katarina too was laughing, helplessly, as she shimmied out of her tight fitting garment.

The moment of mirth passed and with it passed the spectre of insecurity that had loomed in the back of Katarina's mind. Her movements now had strength, yes, but a certain confidence as well.

When her hands fisted in Riven's hair, there was something incredibly right with the world, and when Katarina shoved the other woman down onto the cold floor, the hunger in Riven's amber eyes sent a shiver rippling over the assassin's skin.

Katarina fucked her soldier. Hard.

This, this was what Katarina had wanted and did want and when they both finally began to slow and still, the victory that Katarina felt was rival to, surpassing even, the feeling of victory that came with a clean kill on a perfect mission.

Katarina's words were more than smug. "Did I make my case?"

Lying on her back on the floor, Riven closed her eyes and ran a hand through her short, unbound hair. "Yes." A smile played across her lips.

For Katarina dressing took longer than it ever had before. Normally, when she was finished, she dressed and left. For once, however, she was inclined to linger. Instead of quickly gathering herself up again, she let herself pause, casting her eyes around the room.

A good many of the papers the redhead had sorted through were scattered across the floor.

"Do you know how long it took to organize those?" Katarina's voice lacked venom.

Leaning up against the wall near the closed door, already dressed, Riven grinned, lazy, satisfied. She put the toe of her boot to one of the fallen pages and slid it a few inches, then kicked it up. It rose, then fluttered back to the floor.

Clothes in place now, Katarina ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the tangles, as she walked towards the door. When they proved stubborn, she scowled and tried again, harder, to little effect.

Riven's grin widened. The soldier reached into her pocket and pulled out a hair tie, which she offered to Katarina.

The assassin eyed the strip of leather. Taking it meekly seemed to border on defeat, and she'd come too far for that. Stepping close to the Riven, overtaking the soldier's space, she leaned down so that their faces were barely a hair's breadth apart and chuckled.

The soldier went tense.

Katarina plucked the hair tie out of Riven's hand, then pulled away, already working on tying up her long hair as she stepped back.

Riven sighed, seemingly amused, and shook her head slightly.

It was Katarina who finally set her hand to the door and opened it.

She almost didn't have time to step out of the way as Darius shouldered past her and into Riven's office.

"Riven," the general rumbled. "A word."

Darius glanced back at Katarina. "It took you long enough, Du Couteau."

He then closed the door in the assassin's face.

Katarina had entirely too much dignity to protest or to remain, staring at the heavy door which, she noticed, muffled but did not silence sound.

That particular realization brought a smirk to her features.

Doing her best to seem for all the world like she'd expected the general to be lying in wait, Katarina made her way back up through the halls of High Command. The hour had become quite late and she was sure that, if her father had need of her, he would send for her.

Her feet took her homeward.

Her journey was uneventful, almost peaceful, as peaceful as Noxus could be, at least until she reached her rooms in the Du Couteau mansion.

"You look pleased. I wonder why."

The smile that had lingered on Katarina's face all the way from High Command faltered but did not entirely fade as soon as she saw her sister lounging on the couch in her sitting room as if she owned the place. "What do you want?" the redhead snapped.

Cassiopeia picked herself up and arranged her dark blue dress carefully about her. Tiny white gems sewn into the fabric glittered in the dim hextech light like stars. "Don't worry, I've already heard all the sordid details," she said. "And I came to congratulate you."

Katarina doubted Cassiopeia had come only to congratulate her, but her sister's tone and body language betrayed nothing. Resigned to the fact that the younger woman would do as she pleased, the assassin stepped to the side of the open door, clearing the way for Cassiopeia to leave at her earliest convenience.

For a moment it looked as though she might actually show herself out without further comment, but then, of course, the younger Du Couteau paused halfway to the door to smooth an invisible wrinkle in the rich fabric of her gown. "Truly, it's not every day that I'm graced with so many stories of how my sister allowed a common foot soldier to have their way with her."

Katarina gaped. The heat of fury flushed her cheeks at her sister's words and their implications. "I – what? I didn't-

Cassiopeia's cold green eyes bored into Katarina's. She arched a single, elegant eyebrow.

Katarina's nostrils flared. Her hands clenched into tight fists. "That's not what happened. She didn't-

"It hardly matters," Cassiopeia cut in. "You disarmed yourself for her and rumors are wildfire on a dry plain. They're saying now that you're weak. It didn't help that you lost to her so decisively only hours before."

Katarina crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the dull ache in her shoulder, and wished, not for the first time, that she could tower over her sister as she did so many others. "They can say what they like," she said. "I don't care."

"You should," Cassiopeia said.

"This is none of your concern," replied Katarina defensively.

Cassiopeia, unafraid of the assassin, stepped forward so that mere inches separated them. "Do you know how many times I've sidestepped disaster merely by asking a man if he knows who my sister is? I wonder what will happen when that goes in reverse. You could have at least closed the door instead of waiting for your soldier to do it for you."

Guilt, painful and unwelcome, stabbed deep into Katarina's gut. She grabbed her sister by the shoulder and pulled the woman roughly towards the open door. "If you can help a man fall down the stairs, you can take care of yourself," she said. "Leave me out of it."

Cassiopeia slipped out of Katarina's grasp in a fluid, practiced motion. "Would that I could," she said. "When you are seen as weak, you make yourself a target, and me with you. I am happy for you, truly, but have a care, sister." She turned away and walked down the hall, practically gliding over the thick red carpet. Keeping an even pace, she did not once slow nor turn back as Katarina glared at her retreating figure.

Closing the door behind and against her sister, Katarina retreated back into her apartments, choosing to sit down on the couch that Cassiopeia had abandoned. Unconsciously, she let her hand drop to lie atop one of the throw pillows. On a whim, the redhead picked up the pillow and held it to her face.

It smelled like Riven, still.

The smile she'd lost returned in full force.

The next morning mirrored the last nearly perfectly save for Katarina's lingering good mood. Not even piles of paperwork so numerous and so deep that, stacked one atop another, they might rival Katarina herself in height could dampen her spirits. The words, blobs of blank ink on tan parchment, washed over her. So what if a group of the barbarian tribes of the southern Freljord were forming a splinter faction? That was Swain's problem. So what if the crown prince of Demacia was still missing? Who cared? Not Katarina.

As her eyes glazed over and her mind tuned out the words on the pages, Katarina fidgeted. It was as if she were a student again, yawning over heavy books and scratching images into her desk with her penknife as her tutors droned on and on about – about things she couldn't remember.

Besides - there were things she'd rather be thinking about.

A sharp rap at the door broke Katarina from her reverie. She sat up straight in her chair as Marcus ordered whomever it was to enter.

Riven's shock of white hair was instantly recognizable.

Katarina straightened in her chair ever so slightly more.

Red eyes scanned the room, widening when they fell on Katarina, but then moving on towards her father. "General Du Couteau," the soldier said.

Marcus Du Couteau hardly looked up from his work. "Commander Riven," he said, tone businesslike. "You're early."

Riven said nothing in response. When the general continued to fix his attention on his papers, the soldier let her gaze drift over to Katarina. There was a glint in Riven's eyes that betrayed her thoughts with a hungry intensity.

A feeling, victory perhaps, revived Katarina's smirk. The collar of Riven's uniform was starched, stiff, and high. Though no one could see the bruises covering the soldier's neck, Katarina knew they were there and that was enough. Not quite aware of her actions, Katarina licked her lips.

Somewhere else in the room, her father was speaking.

"... sparring partner for her until your deployment," the general finished.

Katarina snapped back into the moment. Even as she was still wrapping her mind around what her father had just said, surprised words rushed from her mouth, "You're not going to train with me?"

The general flipped through several papers, searching for something. "I am a very busy man, Katarina. The commander is a skilled fighter, well suited to teaching, and your superior in several regards. I expect you to learn from her." Marcus Du Couteau finally looked up, at Riven. "Do you understand?"

"Yes sir." Riven's response was the curt reply of a junior officer. In the soldier's tone though, Katarina could hear surprise, twin to her own.

The general's attention returned to his work. "Go."

Wide-eyed, Katarina stared at her father, then glanced at Riven.

Marcus Du Couteau knew. He had to know - he was the spymaster of Noxus, he knew everything. But not once had he ever even acknowledged the existence of any of her distractions. So this order now, this was, Katarina dared to think, tantamount to his approval.

As she stood to leave, Katarina smiled. She couldn't help but do so.

If the general noticed, he gave no indication of it.

Katarina lead Riven through the halls in silence and, when they'd reached the practice courts in the basement, she kept walking.

"My lady Du Couteau." Riven's voice cut through the chill air. The soldier had stopped at the entrance to the training rooms.

"Hm?" Katarina replied, letting her pace slow, though she did not turn.

"The practice courts are here," Riven replied evenly.

"And your office is this way," Katarina said. "Come."

"No."

Katarina stopped and turned. "What?" She was suddenly, acutely, aware that they were not alone in the hallway. There were the servants, shuffling about, hardly even pretending to mind their own business, and there were the men coming and going from the courts.

"The general-

"What about him?" Katarina demanded.

Riven frowned, then, "The courts are on the way to my office."

There were too many eyes on her for Katarina to risk a scene. Katarina drummed her fingers against the hilt of one of her knives, once, twice, three times - long enough that it was clear she was making a decision. "Fine."

That day, the courts were busy but not crowded. Together, Riven and Katarina chose an open space. As she had the day prior, the soldier chose a weighted stave. A quick glance around the room was all Katarina needed to see that this was not a normal choice. Many Noxian officers preferred live steel. Something, guilt maybe, twinged in Katarina's gut as she drew her knives. Riven didn't have a sword of her own.

The first few blows they traded were far lighter than any they'd shot at each other in the past.

At first Katarina didn't understand it, couldn't understand why she wasn't fighting for blood. And then Riven took a step back and twirled her heavy stave in her hands like a baton. It was impressive, to say the least.

Katarina snorted. She could do better. A flick of her wrists sent both of her knives flying up, spinning as they went. She stepped forward, advancing, and caught them both behind her back.

Riven waited for the weapons to land back in Katarina's hands before she struck. The blow was slow and lazy, a horizontal sweep aimed across the assassin's midriff from out of range, an invitation almost. Katarina tensed, slid her knives into their sheaths, and, trusting that Riven would be strong enough, leapt forward, somersaulting in the air. First one hand, then the other, connected with Riven's weapon as Katarina sprung off of it and over the soldier's head.

Riven didn't disappoint. Even with all Katarina's weight pushing down on her staff, she didn't let it dip.

Landing in a roll that carried her some distance away from her opponent, Katarina felt a grin spread across her face. She wasn't fighting, she was showing off, and it felt good.

When Katarina stood once more and turned, the soldier was waiting with a spark of fire in her amber eyes. Katarina had had her turn, and now it was Riven's.

They continued their dance until Katarina was so exhausted that doubt had begun to gnaw at the back of her mind every time she leapt and twisted and turned. The end came when Riven stepped back and lowered her weapon. It was a simple action, could even have been the preparation for something else, but Katarina took it as an opportunity to step back as well.

For all their effort, no blood had been spilled.

It was only then that Katarina noticed exactly how large the audience they'd attracted was. In the heat of the moment, she'd hardly noticed as the rabble of onlookers grew but now, paused, it seemed that they were the center of a very large crowd.

Someone began to clap, slowly. Katarina's eyes flickered over the assembled men and found the culprit.

Draven.

He was staring at both Katarina and Riven with an intensity the redhead associated with an assassin stalking their mark. It made her skin crawl, but Draven, such as he was, was barely worth her attention.

As the applause spread throughout the crowd, Katarina walked forward and grabbed a fistful of Riven's shirt. The soldier looked down at Katarina's hand pointedly but the assassin didn't let go. "We're going now," Katarina murmured.

Riven didn't protest as Katarina lead her out.


	17. Burials: Chapter 17

A/N: Thank you, as always, to my beta reader Deixis.

As you can see, I'm still alive. I'm still working on this. I think there are maybe two chapters after this - I can't say for sure though because I'm bad at planning. The one plan I do have is to finish this story before I start law school later this year. So there's that.

Thanks to everyone who's still with me after all this time, I hope you enjoy! 

* * *

"The festival next week."

Lost in paperwork, Katarina almost didn't hear Riven. The two women sat side by side at the commander's desk, slowly working through the last elements of assembling a full company for the coming campaign. The ships would depart soon and, of late, Katarina had spent more time helping Riven with papers than sparring, in any sense of the word. With her pained letters, Riven was in a poor position to coordinate an entirely new company of shock troops, men chosen because they were the best the second army had to offer.

In a week's time, Riven would be formally presented with her commission over the second army's newly formed Fury Company. Less than a week after that, the second would depart for Ionia, where it would stroll across the island, putting down whatever token resistance the Ionians offered. During it all, Fury Company would represent the might of Noxus, even as Zaunite arms conducted the bulk of the campaign. And when all was said and done, Riven would come back, probably with a series of decorations to her name, the rewards of command.

"What about it?" Katarina asked, looking up and over to the soldier.

Riven set down the requisition order she'd been holding. Her fingers worried at the paper's edge and she watched her fingers instead of looking at the woman beside her. "Are you going?"

Katarina scoffed. Festivals were just one of the many ways High Command kept the commoners too busy to cause trouble. The one the next week, the one celebrating the thawing of the roads and the end of winter, was no different. She'd forgotten it even existed. "No. Why would I?"

"Oh," replied Riven.

Something in the soldier's tone, disappointment, maybe, made Katarina's gut twist. She tucked a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. Why would Riven be disappointed? "Did you want me to?"

Riven picked up the paper again and squinted at it intently. "Yes," she mumbled.

Katarina frowned. "Why?"

Riven's reply was so quiet it bordered on inaudible. "I wanted to go with you."

"Oh," replied Katarina. She turned her head back to the sheaf of papers before her.

A suffocating silence descended on the room.

Though she saw the words in front of her, Katarina could hardly focus on them. Riven wanted to go to the festival with her. Katarina herself had no interest the thing, but if it would make the soldier happy then, perhaps, it wasn't such a terrible idea. And – and – what time Katarina had left to do whatever it was she was doing – enjoying Riven's company – was fast dwindling.

"Have you seen the requisition for-

"I could go with you," Katarina interrupted.

Riven didn't say anything in response, so Katarina turned back to look at the other woman. Riven was staring at her with her dark amber eyes and for some reason the assassin was strongly reminded of a puppy waiting to be fed. Katarina scowled. "I'm not going to repeat myself."

Riven smiled.

Suddenly nervous, Katarina attempted to erase her scowl and smile back. She wasn't sure how well she managed, but given Riven's pleased humming, it had the intended effect.

When they parted ways that evening, Katarina found had a spring in her step.

She was excited. The winter, filled though it had been with the comings and goings of the white haired soldier, had dragged on with its mind-numbing inactivity. Aside from shuffling through reports the assassin had been left with no missions, no orders, nothing to do.

Now she had something concrete to look forward to.

On the day of the festival, she would meet Riven a little before noon at the Du Couteau estate and they would descend the mountain together and -

What did people do at festivals?

Katarina grimaced.

She'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

She would go to the festival and she would do whatever it was that people did at festivals and when she was done with that it would be a perfect time to bring the soldier home with her and screw the woman in a bed instead of an office, for once. As she pushed open the door to her apartments, Katarina mused that it was, in fact, a very good plan.

By the time she closed her eyes to rest, she no longer thought it was a very good plan.

By the time she woke, she was convinced it was nothing short of a terrible plan.

Over the next several days, a feeling of dread emerged deep in Katarina's gut and grew and slithered up until she was so visibly nervous that Riven, still only half done with a report, set down her pen, opened her mouth, and asked, "Katarina, is something wrong?"

"No," Katarina snarled, and then she preempted any disagreement with a hungry kiss because she was, by no means at all, intimidated by the idea of accompanying Riven to a festival.

Even after all that though, it wasn't until the day of the festival, standing in front of her closet, that Katarina truly understood how lost she was. Surely celebrations called for clothing out of the ordinary – but it was winter, so she'd need a heavy coat – did celebrations call for special coats as well? And what was Riven going to wear? She hadn't seen the soldier wear anything but uniforms since the solstice. Would Riven wear a uniform? Did she need to find something that would match a uniform?

"What are you going to give me?" Cassiopeia asked.

Katarina physically jumped in surprise. Her thoughts had been so loud and in such turmoil that she hadn't heard the sound of her bedroom door opening. It was rare to that she made such a mistake. In her line of work, missing the sound of a door could be fatal. Angry at herself as much as at her sister, Katarina glared. "Why would I give you anything?"

Cassiopeia swept across the room as if she owned it. She gracefully dodged around her sister to reach the open closet. She paused for a brief moment, considering, then set to work pulling out garments and tossing them on the bed behind her. When she was done, she moved to Katarina's vanity and rummaged through the drawers. She pulled something out and set it on top of the small heap of outfit on the bed.

It was Riven's necklace, a simple iron cross on a chain.

"Middle class, so you won't stand out, but well made, so no one forgets who you are," Cassiopeia announced. "Now, what are you going to give me?" the younger woman asked again, smug this time.

Katarina bristled. She glared at the clothes. She scowled at her sister. She grit her teeth. "Gratitude," she said. Her ego wasn't so blinding that she couldn't see the value of her sister's help.

Cassiopeia let out one of her impossibly dignified snorts. "Sister, dearest, we simply must work on your negotiation skills. Sometimes I wonder how it is that we are related."

"Fine. What do you want?" Katarina replied.

Satisfied at her victory, Cassiopeia retreated to the chair at Katarina's vanity, signaling she intended to stay a while. "Tell me about your soldier."

Abandoning any hopes she'd harbored that Cassiopeia would leave with the same initiative she'd entered with, Katarina went to the pile of clothes and began to change. "You already know about Riven," she said.

Condescension dripped from Cassiopeia's voice. "I dare say, I know more about her than you." Her tone shifted, less condescending now, more demanding, "But I want to hear it from you."

"What do you want to hear?" Katarina asked as she wiggled into a pair of very snug leather pants. Her time with Riven was making her seriously reconsider her taste in trousers. There were certainly times they seemed to be more trouble than they were worth.

Cassiopeia set her elbow down on Katarina's vanity and rested her chin on her hand. The gesture made her appear somehow more friendly. "What do you want to tell me?"

"Nothing," Katarina answered without hesitation.

"I can wait," Cassiopeia said.

Katarina made her wait. She donned everything Cassiopeia had pulled out, finishing with the necklace. She hadn't worn it, hadn't touched it, since the disaster at the party. Putting it on reminded her of the way Riven's fingers had brushed against her neck and, despite her too-patient sister sitting and gloating a few yards away, Katarina smiled.

"Riven is strong," Katarina finally said.

"And?" Cassiopeia prompted.

Katarina glanced at her clock. There was ample time before Riven was due to arrive. Doubtless, Cassiopeia had planned her own arrival that way. The youngest Du Couteau was far too cunning to ever be impeded by something like poor time management. Reluctantly, Katarina sat down on the edge of her bed. On a whim, she relaxed and flopped backwards into her sheets – sheets which, with any luck, she'd have Riven in by the end of the night. "And she's a great fuck."

Sarcasm was thick in Cassiopeia's voice. "Tell me more. Tell me more about this Noxian woman who is both strong and good in bed. Surely no one else in this city combines those two things quite so well. Surely you couldn't go down to the market and-

In a heartbeat, Katarina was sitting straight up again. Her eyes were narrowed dangerously. "Don't finish that sentence."

"Why not?" Cassiopeia challenged. "She's just a foot soldier."

"She's not just a foot soldier," Katarina said tersely. "She's better than the rest of them."

"Really?" Cassiopeia replied.

The disbelief in her sister's voice irked Katarina to no end. "Yes," she snapped.

"How is this soldier any better than the rest of them?" Cassiopeia asked.

"She's stronger," Katarina said.

Even to her own ears those two words weren't enough.

"She's more driven," Katarina continued, reaching for something, she wasn't sure what.

Her words, clumsy though they were, kept coming as she tried to explain and, with them, a swell of pride, "She works harder. She's confident in herself. She's special."

Cassiopeia remained silent for a time, letting Katarina hear what she'd just said. Then, "You'd do well to remember that then." Cassiopeia lifted her head off her hand, signaling a change in the conversation. "She's also fanatically punctual and decided to arrive early today. You should head downstairs now if you want to meet her on the steps outside the house."

"I want to meet her outside?" Katarina questioned. It wasn't much of a question; she was already getting up.

"You do," Cassiopeia said. "You also want to wear an older coat. The one three down from the far left in the coat closet would be fine."

Katarina paused at the door. "Cass, why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"

Cassiopeia stood and smoothed out her dress. "The satisfaction of seeing a job well done. Assisting Jericho with the barbarian problem is so dreadfully dull - I have to entertain myself somehow."

The third coat from the left in the closet was a heavy black wool overcoat, nondescript in its simplicity. Katarina didn't hesitate to grab it. Cassiopeia had yet to steer her wrong when it came to clothing.

Outside, the day was crisp and clear. Though it was still too cold for the snow to melt so high on the mountain, the weather hinted of spring. The broad avenue outside the Du Couteau mansion was as empty as it always was. The elite of Noxus had the city's widest roads and the fewest feet to traverse them. Standing on the steps of her home, Katarina could easily see any who approached and, within a few minutes, she wasn't disappointed in her watch.

Just as Cassiopeia had predicted, Riven was early.

Even though the soldier was coming from the same direction they would both leave in, Katarina waited until Riven was at the bottom of the mansion's steps before descending to meet her.

"My lady," Riven greeted. There was enough warmth in those two words that, for once, Katarina didn't feel the title was distant and formal. From Riven, it sounded like her name.

Katarina had stopped one step above Riven and that, combined with her height, put her entirely too far away from the other woman. She took the last step down. "You're early."

Hands shoved in her pockets, Riven shrugged.

Katarina turned slightly and looked away, down the street in the direction of the base of the mountain. "So what do people do at this festival?"

Riven shrugged again, accompanying the motion with a neutral hum.

Incredulous, Katarina turned back to her companion. "You don't know?"

"No," Riven confirmed.

"Haven't you been to a festival before?" Katarina asked.

This time, it was Riven's turn to look away, down the street. "Not this one," she said.

"Not this one?" Katarina probed. "Why not?"

"It's bad luck for soldiers," Riven answered.

Katarina had become accustomed to the weight of the rune necklace to the point she couldn't feel it against her skin, but she still knew it was there. "I thought you didn't believe in luck."

Riven's eyes were fixed on some point in the distance. "My friends did."

Katarina frowned. Had she ever seen Riven passing time with anyone but Darius and Draven? About to ask after Riven's supposed friends, Katarina remembered the tightness in Riven's jaw leaving her captain's chamber. The question died in her throat.

Silence, but for the howling of the mountaintop wind, descended.

Painfully aware of a desperate need for tact, Katarina spoke slowly. "What did you do instead then?"

"We stayed at the barracks," Riven said. "We drank and ate." Finally, she faced Katarina again. Her words came just as measured as Katarina's, though they were laden with weariness instead of hesitance. "The festival is bad luck for soldiers because when the roads thaw, we leave and don't come home."

Katarina held out her hand. "Let's go to your barracks then," she said.

Riven stared at the offered hand as if she'd never seen a hand before.

Katarina neither spoke nor withdrew.

Riven pulled her own hand out of her pocket and took Katarina's.

That single action was all the assent Katarina needed. With a slight tug, she began to lead them both down the street, down the mountain, on the long walk towards the sprawling camp of the second army group in the military district. Though the air was still frigid with winter, Riven's palm was warm against Katarina's. Even as her exposed skin began to numb, Katarina steadfastly refused to take her hand back for the comfort of a glove or her pocket.

As the two women traveled farther from the aristocratic seats, the streets narrowed and the crowds thickened until they were pushing through the great mass of revelers, all decked out in gaudy coats. It was the most colorful Katarina had ever seen Noxus, usually so monotonously dark. It was also extremely loud. Having no inclination to shout and nothing worth shouting, Katarina tightened her grip on Riven's hand and foraged forward, shoving men and women and children aside as she went.

After passing through the commercial heart of the city, the crowds thinned and, as they neared the military district, vanished almost entirely.

Katarina's fingers relaxed but didn't let go.

By now Katarina knew the way to Riven's barracks well. Even if she hadn't been there twice, the assassin had an excellent sense of direction, especially in cities. She would be dead several times over without one. Her confidence in herself and her course wavered, however, as Riven pulled them in a different direction when Katarina was sure the barracks was quite close.

"Where are we going?" Katarina demanded.

Riven didn't answer, just kept walking, leading Katarina behind her. Together, they approached a large stone building with a low roof and wide doors. Riven brought them in.

Though it took Katarina's eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting of the single room beyond, she quickly recognized the place as a mess hall. It was grander by far than that hall in the swamp where they had first fought. This mess had heavy varnished tables, meant to last through years of use instead of months, and the serving area was a stone counter with steel furnishings instead of a large pot in a corner. Hextech heaters lined the walls. Just like that hall in the swamp though, this one was desolate.

Riven slipped her hand out of Katarina's and indicated that she sit. Not waiting for Katarina to follow through, the soldier headed for the serving area.

Pensive, Katarina scanned her seating options. There were a few clusters of men sitting together, dispersed throughout the hall. No one, she noted, was sitting alone. Though this mess served Riven's division, when they'd entered, while some men had looked up to see who it was, none had made any gesture of welcome or familiarity towards Riven, so Katarina assumed they were not at all close.

Katarina picked the end of an empty table and sat down to wait.

The wait was short.

When Riven returned, she was balancing two bowls of something Katarina assumed was food and two mugs of something that smelled like alcohol. Riven set the items down, not spilling anything, and slipped onto the bench across the table from Katarina.

Not entirely convinced that whatever it was in the bowl in front of her was edible, Katarina carefully poked it with her spoon.

Already eating, Riven swallowed before speaking. "It's good," she said.

Katarina raised an eyebrow at the soldier and her mess hall food but dipped her spoon in anyway.

It was vegetable stew. It wasn't the best vegetable stew Katarina had ever had, but it was certainly good enough that she polished the bowl off almost as quickly as Riven. Not bothering to ask if Katarina wanted more, Riven took both bowls away and returned with seconds. Katarina didn't hesitate to clean that bowl as well. She would never give voice to the thought, but the soldier's fare had grown on her rather quickly.

During the course of the meal, Riven continually drank from her mug but Katarina only took a few polite sips from her own. As far as beers went, it wasn't awful, but the assassin felt uncomfortable drinking in such an unfamiliar setting. Her instincts screamed that it wasn't safe to drop her guard so fully.

By the time they'd both finished their third bowl of stew, Riven had also finished three mugs and was working through her fourth and Katarina had barely touched her first.

Katarina scowled at her mug.

As it was, she rarely consumed beer, wine, or spirits anyway, but tonight was the thaw festival and she was there in the mess hall with Riven because Riven's friends, Riven's dead friends, used to eat and drink with her for the thaw festival and-

"You don't have to drink," Riven said.

Katarina's scowl deepened.

She was with Riven. She was safe.

Katarina grabbed the mug off the table and took a large gulp, then another, then another, until the cup was empty. She set it back down on the table, looked pointedly at it, then at Riven.

Riven let out a short laugh and then went to refill Katarina's mug.

Katarina drained that round as well. Somewhere in the third round, Katarina began to slow. There was a sort of fuzz descending on her thoughts and, through the fuzz, it seemed a good idea for her not to move on to her fourth cup so quickly. Other than drink, however, there was naught else to do but talk and experience had taught Katarina that neither she nor Riven were much for conversation.

"So," Katarina began. It seemed as good a place to start as any.

Riven said nothing. She'd had considerably more to drink than Katarina and, though her movements remained sober, her cheeks were slightly flushed.

Katarina made an attempt to continue. "So I have a sword still in my training room," she said.

Riven cleared her throat. "You're wearing the," and instead of finishing her sentence, she gestured to Katarina's neck where the iron cross rested.

"I am," Katarina said. It was strange, she thought, that she was having a conversation with Riven. "I took your gift. Will you take mine?"

Riven ran a hand through her short white hair. "High Command is giving me a sword," she said.

Katarina stopped herself from wincing. She'd forgotten. Next week, Riven would be presented with a runeblade in the make of a Noxian zweihander, forged for her and her alone by order of High Command. It would be yet another symbol of traditional pride attached to Fury Company as they marched across Ionia. "You can have two swords," Katarina tried, entirely aware of how ridiculous such a thing would be. "One for each hand."

Riven laughed and it seemed she wasn't laughing at Katarina so much as with her. "It doesn't work."

"Have you tried?" Katarina pressed.

"Yes," Riven replied.

Perhaps if she hadn't had several beers, Katarina would have been able to hide her surprise. "What?"

Riven's hand ran through her hair again. "It wasn't two swords," she said. "It was a sword an an axe." Her hand dropped to push up her right sleeve. She pointed to a particularly vicious scar running the length of her forearm.

Katarina appreciatively traced the raised scar with her eyes. Many Noxians would love to have such a mark of strength but few were also willing to acquire it.

"Keep the sword for me," Riven said.

Katarina tilted her head to the side, not sure what Riven was asking.

"I have to take the sword from High Command," Riven said. "But it's a sword. It will break eventually."

Katarina nodded, understanding now. A shiver ran down her spine as she considered what had happened the last time Riven's sword broke.

Suddenly distant, Riven sipped at her drink.

In an attempt to keep the conversation going, Katarina asked, "What else do you do during this festival?"

Riven looked around the large, mostly empty room, and shrugged. "This," she said.

Katarina waved her hand to indicate the room. "What is this?" she asked.

Riven cleared her throat, paused, then, quietly, "Spend time with people you want to remember you."

Katarina scoffed. "You're not going to die," she said. She didn't have to fake conviction in her voice because she felt it, knew it, knew what the future held as surely as if it were the past.

Riven looked straight into Katarina's eyes, catching her gaze and holding it.

Seconds ticked by.

Katarina shifted on the hard bench at the table, suddenly ill at ease. The absolutely ridiculous suggestion that something less than favorable might happen disturbed Katarina more than it had any right to.

Riven was too strong to ask to be remembered.

Katarina seized her drink and finished it, then stood. "Fine then," she said. Belatedly realizing how much space she'd put between them by standing, she leaned down towards Riven. "Let's spend time together. But I think your bed is a better place for that then this mess hall."

For a moment Riven continued to stare at Katarina – and then the moment was gone and with it the somber mood that had gripped the soldier for most of the evening. Riven chuckled and rolled her eyes before standing as well.

They left the hall together.


	18. Burials: Chapter 18

A/N: Thank you to my wonderful beta Deixis, as well as to CrimsonNoble for letting me bounce some ideas around.

And, as always, thank you to everyone who's been with me this whole time and to everyone who dropped in late but read everything and is still with me. I could not have done this without you and your kind words.

I hope you enjoy this second to last chapter! There's one more left after this - but I don't know how long it will take to write because, hah, I want it to be perfect.

* * *

The starched collar of Katarina's military uniform scratched her neck unpleasantly. Her father's men almost never donned uniforms and Katarina was no exception. She'd worn this one once, perhaps twice before and had then thought never to wear it again.

The only thing more uncomfortable than her uniform was standing at attention a half pace behind her father for the past hour as Keiran Darkwill droned on about the glory of Noxus. As his father's representative, the young man was leading the ceremony of investiture. It was a pity he was an abysmal public speaker.

Positioned on the dais along with Keiran and several senior generals, Katarina couldn't even restlessly fidget.

She hated staying still.

Able to do nothing else, she cast her eyes out over the great hall. Granite walls and pillars bound in steel spoke of the strength of Noxus while gold trimmings screamed the wealth of conquest. A crimson carpet ran from the great iron doors at the far end all the way to the platform on which Katarina stood. Magelights shone from the high vaulted ceiling, casting a soft white light over all the assembled members of High Command, from the actual members of High Command to the officers who made High Command function on a daily basis.

No one at High Command had been allowed to decline attendance, excepting, of course, Boram Darkwill himself.

Unfortunately, the young commanders receiving commissions, Riven among them, were sequestered elsewhere.

Bored to death of the hall and its occupants, Katarina's eyes unfocused as her mind wandered.

The last days had passed in a blur.

To Katarina's dismay, her sparring sessions with Riven had ceased entirely as the soldier was drawn constantly into meetings of strategy with the other Noxian commanders assigned to support the Zaunite campaign. The mood surrounding the meetings was never good. The men involved always arrived frustrated and departed angry. Riven was no exception.

The night before the ceremony of investiture, perched on the edge of Riven's desk, Katarina had watched the commander's hand shake from gripping her pen too tightly.

"It's one summer, one fall," Katarina said.

Riven set down her pen on the desk with a sharp clack of metal on wood. She ran a hand through her short white hair as she stared at the paper before her. "It's not right."

Confident that Riven wasn't watching her, Katarina rolled her eyes. The soldier's objection to the campaign was utterly Noxian in its foundations and its stubbornness, but it was futile and slowly wearing on her patience. "Ionia is weak," she said. "The Zaunites will hardly have a chance to do anything before the Ionians surrender."

Riven looked up, red eyes burning. "There's no honor in butchering the weak."

Katarina set a finger to the paper in front of Riven and pushed, sending it sliding off the desk to slowly drift to the floor. "Well maybe you'll be lucky," she said. "Maybe they'll fight back."

Riven bent down to retrieve the paper. "Kat…"

Both women froze.

Slow, Riven turned to look up at Katarina as Katarina began to smirk. The trepidation in Riven's face was delicious. Ionia was boring. Zaun was boring. Katarina had had more than enough of them both. Riven, on the other hand, was something else entirely. "I don't recall allowing you to call me that," Katarina said.

Reading Katarina in an instant, Riven shook her head. "I'm busy," she muttered. "Tomorrow is…"

Katarina swung herself around on the desk to face Riven better. She reached out and flicked the paper to the floor once more. "Not anymore," she said.

Riven raised a hand towards her hair, but Katarina caught the soldier's wrist and guided the hand to rest on her leather-clad thigh instead. "If you want to call me Kat, you have to earn it."

Riven opened her mouth, probably to protest, then closed it again. She seemed to be considering her options. Finally, she sighed, then grinned. "Did you make your sister earn it?"

Katarina's jaw dropped with a combination of shock and indignation. "What?"

Riven stood. With Katarina still sitting on the desk, for once, Riven was taller. Her hand slid up Katarina's thigh as she leaned forward until their noses were almost touching. "I said, did you make your sister earn it?"

Somewhat recovered now Katarina leaned forward as well, resting her forehead on Riven's. "Not like I'm going to make you earn it." Whatever reply Riven may have made, Katarina stifled it with a hungry kiss.

Less than a week remained before the second army departed.

And then Riven would be gone.

One summer, one fall, Katarina had said, but, fingers scrambling at the buttons of the soldier's uniform, she knew one summer, one fall was an eternity.

And when Riven returned, what then?

Katarina had never spent more than a month returning to anyone's bed, man or woman. Would she forget Riven in the interim or would they spend another winter together, idling while the snows blocked the roads? Was Riven different?

Riven's voice yanked Katarina out of her thoughts.

"What was that?" Katarina murmured. Riven's shirt was on the floor now, along with her cloth chest bindings, and Katarina didn't want to talk, she wanted to admire the view.

Riven reached out and touched Katarina's chin, directing her gaze upward so that their eyes locked. Riven smirked. "Kat."

Katarina smirked back. "Riven."

"You were going to make me earn it," Riven said.

The future didn't matter. Riven was the present, the here and now, all Katarina needed.

Katarina slid off the desk. She pushed her leather clad torso up against Riven's bare skin, kept pushing until Riven took a step back as she stepped forward. "I'm taking my time."

And then, true to her word, Katarina had taken her time.

Still standing behind her father on the platform at the front of the great hall, Katarina shifted her weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. Memories of Riven were certainly pleasant but they were perhaps not the best way to remain perfectly still in front of the entirety of High Command.

At least it seemed Keiran was finally bringing his meandering speech to a close. And that meant that the one thing Katarina was actually interested in was about to begin.

Keiran made some kind of gesture signaling that the ceremony should proceed and, at the far end of the hall, the massive iron double doors, three men high and twice as many broad, opened inwards.

For a moment, Katarina cast her eyes around in confusion. It took a team of men to open those doors – when they had closed at the beginning of the ceremony their clanging had been the sign that everyone was trapped, doomed to listen to Keiran - and there were no men crewing the doors to be seen.

And then Katarina saw her.

Riven stood, hands still braced, one on either door. Her shoulders rose and fell heavily and her step faltered ever so slightly as she came forward into the hall. No one in the hall noticed the pause, they only gaped at her strength.

Clad in the dress uniform of a company commander, black with red trim and silver accents, the white-haired soldier was a sight to behold. It was clear that a tailor had fixed the garment to fit her woman's body and that the tailor had done a splendid job of it.

Katarina swallowed.

If she licked her lips, she doubted anyone would notice. All eyes were elsewhere.

Behind Riven came four men, every one larger than her by at least a head. It was impossible to tell how old they were because war had aged them all, as had the scars crisscrossing their features. They were the captains of Fury Company – Riven's captains.

With great effort, Katarina tore her eyes away from the procession.

It was a simple matter to find Darius in the crowd of lieutenant generals near to the base of the podium. His smile was a far cry from a broad grin. Such a thing did not become him. But he was smiling and Katarina read pride in the stiff lines of his body.

All of this was his doing, with Jericho Swain's backing – or so Riven said.

Envy boiled searing in Katarina's breast.

If she could have done the same for Riven, she would have.

Someday, Katarina knew, someday she would take her father's place in High Command and she would have the power to give Riven whatever the soldier desired. But would it even matter? It was only a matter of time before Riven herself rose to the point she too was of High Command.

Someday, they would stand on the dais, the seat of Noxus itself, together.

As the procession reached the base of the platform, Riven, who until that point had kept her gaze fixed straight ahead on Keiran, glanced to the side.

Katarina caught her eyes and raised the corners of her mouth just enough to suggest a smile.

Riven didn't smile, didn't make any motion to acknowledge Katarina, but Katarina knew the commander's answer regardless.

Elsewhere, Keiran was droning on again. After a time, he raised a hand and, from the side of the room, came two sword bearers. Laid on a crimson litter between them was an enormous Noxian zweihander. The blade was made of black stone. Across its surface ran dormant runes etched deep, waiting for their intended to awaken them.

The two sword bearers came to a halt before Keiran, between him and Riven and Riven's captains.

Keiran stepped forward, reached out, and seized the hilt of the sword.

And then – nothing.

The ceremony, so well-orchestrated up until that point, paused.

Trying to decipher the cause, Katarina looked at where Keiran had set his hand on the blade. Her eyes narrowed. He was clearly straining. The muscles in his face twitched and jumped though he was hiding his exertion well. But the sword wasn't moving.

The awkward lull in the ceremony continued until Keiran relaxed his grip. He looked out at the assemblage and smiled nervously.

His smile did nothing to ease the merciless stares of High Command.

Keiran let go of the sword and stepped back. He looked to Riven and motioned toward the sword. "For you," he said.

Barely acknowledging the son of the Grand General, Riven stepped forward as if in a trance. She laid a hand on the blade and picked it up as if it weighed nothing at all.

The very moment Riven's fingers touched the stone of the weapon, the runes running the length of it burst into violent life with a brilliant flash of emerald light. The strength of it left Katarina blinking to clear spots from her vision.

Keiran took another step back.

Katarina was close enough to see beads of sweat forming on the back of his neck.

Riven lowered the sword, though not so low as to let it touch the ground.

Instinct told Katarina Riven would never allow such a thing to happen. Instinct also told her that the sword Riven asked her to keep in trust – Riven would never wield it. The sword the soldier held now, black stone and bright runes, would never fail her, would always be with her like Noxus itself.

Keiran was speaking again, making closing remarks, dismissing Riven and her captains and her sword in favor of the other new officers taking up their commissions that day.

Katarina watched as Riven lead her captains back down the hall, back to the great iron doors she'd shoved open with the brute force of four men. When they vanished across the threshold of the room, they were replaced with a seemingly endless stream of lesser commanders, almost all promoted to fill the gaping holes the Demacians had ripped in the second army, stepping forward to receive trinkets, symbols of power instead of power itself.

They were meaningless. No one would remember them when they inevitably died, as was the fate of the weak.

Riven, on the other hand, would be remembered by Noxus for a generation, at least.

Still trapped at attention behind her father on the dais, Katarina smiled.

That evening, when Katarina went to find Riven in her office, the commander had her sword laid out on her desk. Papers were haphazardly strewn about, some still on the desk and many on the floor, having been shoved aside in favor of the great weapon that now held pride of place.

The freshly recognized commander herself sat at the desk hypnotized by the steady green glow of the runes. Though the light had faded down from what it had been when Riven first touched the blade in the great hall, it was still more than enough to eclipse the amber of the hextech bulb dangling from the ceiling. Riven's fingers traced over each rune in turn, sliding across the stone reverently, memorizing every inch of the sword.

Jealousy coiled in Katarina's gut. She cleared her throat, making her bid for Riven's attention.

Riven looked up. She was still wearing her dress uniform, though, for comfort, she'd left the collar undone. "Kat."

Katarina made her way around the desk, moving to stand behind Riven. She crossed her arms over her chest as she regarded the blade before them. "Have you named it yet?"

Riven shook her head.

Katarina frowned. "Don't swords normally have names?"

Riven shook her head again, then reached up and took one of Katarina's hands, tugging it enough to tell Katarina she wanted something. Grudgingly, Katarina let Riven place her hand on the black stone of the blade.

"Do you feel that?" Riven asked.

The sword felt like a slightly slippery rock. Whatever Riven meant, Katarina doubted it was that. What was far better than the cool stone of the blade was Riven's calloused hand on her own. "I don't feel anything," Katarina said.

Riven's fingers slipped through Katarina's to brush against the sword.

The runes flared to emerald life and the cool stone turned warm beneath and around Katarina's skin, pulsing, almost, like a heartbeat. The shock of the change made Katarina jerk back, but Riven's hand on hers kept her in place.

Riven said nothing, but her amber eyes were expectant.

Katarina wet her lips, searching for words. The steady heat of the sword under her fingers was as familiar to her as the strong hand above them. Almost unconsciously, she began to rub her thumb against the smooth stone, slow, luxuriating in the sensation of warmth.

Katarina swallowed, still grappling with what it was she had. "I feel you."

Never withdrawing her hand from Katarina's nor her fingers from the blade, Riven stood. Instead of pulling Katarina down towards her, she pushed herself up on her toes to catch Katarina's lips for a slow kiss.

Smiling into the kiss, Katarina bent down obligingly as she slipped her free hand around the small of Riven's back and brought her closer.


	19. Burials: Chapter 19

A summer, a fall, and then a winter.

Katarina shivered in her heavy coat as she walked the short way from the Du Couteau manor to High Command. The sun was only just beginning to show itself on the horizon and, from the looks of the snowy tracks left in the road, she was one of the first to arrive at the Noxian seat that morning.

It didn't really matter. With well over half of the Noxian army deployed in Ionia or wintering on the Demacian front, High Command was always empty.

For the same reason, it seemed to Katarina that the entire city was empty.

Managing to speak to no one, she slipped through deserted halls to her office.

As befit her father's daughter, her office was on an upper floor of High Command and, although it was small, it was well-lit and well-furnished. On her desk sat a hefty stack of reports, left there overnight by couriers. It was for these reports she'd arrived so early.

Slim fingers just as at ease, now, after a year in High Command, with paper as with blades, flicked through the stack. Mechanically, she pulled out an order from her father and set it aside to read later, and she did the same with a short report on her sister's progress working with Jericho Swain on the final negotiations with the barbarians.

The order from her father was no doubt routine. He had spent the year pruning certain elements in Noxus and Katarina didn't care for politics enough to ask questions. If this particular order were anything more important than slitting the throat of some troublemaker Noxian aristocrat, he would have briefed her in person. The report on her sister's progress was no doubt as dull as diplomacy. Still, though, both deserved to be read.

When she'd taken stock of everything on her desk, Katarina laid out the one report she actually cared about, the one report she'd bothered waking up and arriving at High Command early for.

The Ionian file was by far the thickest of the lot.

Although for her entire life Katarina had thought the movements of armies were a dreadfully dull subject, most weeks she found the time to stay abreast of the campaign. After the first several months, she'd given up trying to tell herself she was reading pages upon pages of mind-numbing military prose for the sake of her rank and duties.

She was reading the reports to keep track of Riven, now hundreds of miles and almost a full year distant.

Even given her personal interest, however, of late, work in the field had kept her too busy to flip through the twice-weekly massive dossiers. At last able to carve out a scrap of personal time, Katarina stifled a sleepy yawn as her eyes glazed over reading about the slow march of the Noxian-Zaunite forces towards the Ionian Placidium.

If the troops would march faster, they'd be home sooner. More than once she'd heard the generals complain that the campaign would be over already if the Noxian forces didn't have to move at the speed of Zaunite equipment. Though Katarina hardly paid attention to politics, even she had heard that there was an entire faction emerging in the halls of High Command, led by Darius, returned from the Freljord, and Swain, distracted though he was with the barbarian peace settlement, pushing to deploy another army to Ionia and to replace the Zaunite command with a Noxian one.

Katarina reached the end of the report and frowned.

There'd been no mention of Fury Company.

Maybe the Zaunite commanders had finally, finally allowed the Noxian shock troops a reprieve from near constant marching and skirmishes.

Katarina set the report aside and pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk where she'd stowed all the reports she'd received that she hadn't had a chance to review. In short order, she located the previous Ionian dossier, half a week old now, laid it out, and began to read.

When she finished, she read it again.

And again. And again and again and again and the words didn't change and -

* * *

They lay together in Riven's narrow bunk. Riven had her face nestled up against Katarina's neck, one strong arm holding Katarina close, the other flung haphazardly off towards the head of the bed, out of the way.

Riven's body was a furnace but, in the cold of the barracks, Katarina welcomed the heat.

Warm breath tickled against Katarina's skin and – and maybe that was why she was still awake.

"Go to sleep, Kat," Riven murmured. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

* * *

(end)

* * *

A/N: So, uh, I guess my closing remarks go here.

omg I finished a fic I have never finished a fic before lol

I want to thank Deixis, Balabalabagan, Multishep, and CrimsonNoble for all, at varying points, beta-ing for me – but especially Deixis and Balabalabagan who were my go to guys from the very beginning. Deixis in particular held my hand this entire way and I simply could not have done any of this without him. Not only did my beta readers put up with me this whole time, they also constantly pushed me to do better and, like, I do not have words to describe my gratitude.

I also want to thank everyone who left a review at any point. I would write out the list of you, but I'm terrified I'd miss someone and – and I read every single review and I would feel terrible if I accidently excluded anyone because all of you meant a lot to me over this past year.

Also, thank you to those of you who favorited/followed.

Reviews, favorites, follows – any author who claims they don't feel good every time they get one of these is lying.

I enjoy telling stories and, while I'm going to do a write-up later on the story of writing this story and how Katariven came to be my OTP, this particular site isn't the proper forum for such a thing. And, speaking of – generally, I've been switching to writing a lot of short-form and prompt-based Katariven fics and this site isn't great for posting that kind of stuff. Tumblr, however, is pretty good and there is a very awesome group of people doing fanfic and fanart on tumblr for the glory that is the Katarina/Riven ship and you can find it if you search for "katariven." Seriously, it's an amazing tag, you should check it out.

If you're looking for some good longer Katariven fic, on this site, CrimsonNoble has the wonderful "When We Are Weak" and, over on AO3, LogosMinusPity has some excellent fics as well.

Moving forward, I will not be writing a sequel to this story any time in the near future (I might, someday, just, not this year). One of the reasons this fic has ended where it has is that I'm going through a fair amount of turbulence in my personal life right now and I cannot do a long-term commitment to a fic currently. That said, I'll probably be posting some of the more substantial things I've written on tumblr to this site and since I have plans to do installments of a longer arc Katariven domestic!au or historical!au of some sort on tumblr, some of that may get refashioned and posted here as well.

Anyway. Thank you for getting to this point, see you round!


	20. Unearthed: Chapter 1

A/N: I lied about the not writing the sequel this year thing. Whoops. No promises about update schedule stuff - I'm literally moving across the country in a week and starting school later this month. But I felt like writing, so here we are. Er - I'm a little rusty with this writing thing and pretty nervous about this chapter, but, yolo, here ya go.

Thank you to Deixis for beta-reading duties. Also to lipsiesteatime for telling me about German street food. Having friends makes research easy.

Lore Compliance Note: I'd like to reiterate that I'm using pre-rework Cassiopeia lore and often draw from older, no longer canon, lore. Not that there's much of a lore canon left, considering the current state of Riot and "narrative."

* * *

**Unearthed - Chapter One**

* * *

Years.

It'd been years since Riven crossed the salt-soaked timber of the gangway, leaving Noxus behind for what she'd believed would be a single season of campaign. She'd carried her runesword wrapped in oiled cloth across her shoulder and beneath its weight and hers, the plank she'd trod had moaned.

It had held though. It had held her, it had held every man of her company, every soul who'd followed her. And when they'd all boarded, the crew of the frigate dragged it up and stowed it safe.

Like everything else created by Noxus, it had been strong enough to do its work.

There'd been no dock at their destination. The Noxian fleet came near the shore and dropped anchor there. The soldiers clambered into shallow vessels and rowed the rest of the way to the beach, leaping out into the water where the breakers met land as the boats turned back to ferry comrades, wave after wave after wave.

Now, when Riven disembarked, she crossed another gangway, onto a pier, solid beneath her feet – so different from the deck she'd become used to after a week at sea.

She wasn't a commander leading men, she wasn't a soldier headed to war.

She was -

Around her, other men, other men who'd fought and fled, poured off the ship. Some ran headlong towards family or friends, men and women unseen since the beginning of the disastrous Ionian campaign. Some stumbled here and there, drunk on the sights and sounds and smells of home.

Darkwill is dead, the messengers had said. Jericho Swain now leads. He pardons all the Ionian deserters – the true Noxians who refused to follow Zaunite weakness. Come back. Come home. Darkwill's weakness has been purged from High Command and Noxus has need of her sons.

The news had spread across half the world and they'd gathered, the cowards who gave up their home in exchange for their lives, and they'd returned.

Years.

It had been so many lonely, longing, years. Years spent dreaming of a city forever lost, the twists and turns of alleys buried under freshly fallen snow. Years spent stumbling through a strange language while still thinking thoughts in a native tongue. Years spent looking out to the horizon, measuring the distance.

And now -

The dock smelled of brine, but beneath the stench of salt Riven caught a whiff of steaming pork sausages and fresh-baked bread rolls, the traditional street fare of Noxus. Nowhere else in the world, at least not that she'd traveled, offered the same. Her mouth watered.

It took little effort to find the food cart by the end of the pier, a rickety wooden thing painted a bright, eye-catching, red. A line extended out from it, ever growing, as more and more men queued up, eager to exchange a few coins for that taste of home.

Riven was halfway to the end of the line before she stopped still in her tracks.

She had some money, but not enough for any sort of luxury. She'd spent almost everything on passage home and now she had nothing but a few brass pennies and the broken sword at her side.

Since fleeing from Ionia, she'd made her way as a sell-sword in Bilgewater, working for pirate hunters and those many men who merely wanted to be left alone. It had paid, but not well enough to leave her with much after food and more drink than she rightly needed. There was scant other work for a former soldier, though. Her only trade was violence. Dockhands made even less coin and Riven had too much left of her pride to consider the other 'options.'

The duties of a mercenary had been similar, but the life had been nothing like what she'd become accustomed to while serving Noxus. Bilgewater was chaos. Employers came and went faster than the tides and they could be counted on only for their coin, and sometimes not even that. Comrades were as likely to slit your throat as they were to guard your back in a fight. But that wasn't so strange. It was Noxus, after all, that had taught Riven the bitter taste of betrayal.

The Noxian army – the army, once, had taken care of its own. Rations had not always been good, but they had been steady. The barracks guaranteed a roof over her head. Uniforms made dressing each day simple. She'd followed orders and life had been straightforward, easy to predict.

Obey and be strong.

The strong will survive.

Anger quickened her breathing and pulled her expression into a tight frown.

Rare now were the moments her mood wasn't touched by anger.

Swain said that the army would again fulfill its duty to its soldiers.

Jericho Swain was the most successful general in Noxus' recent history. After too many years of failure by so many other commanders, he'd swept into the north and won the campaign there in a single season. He was well respected by his men, and by his enemies. He'd claimed the title of Grand General by defeating Keiran Darkwill in a duel, proving his strength, just as Noxian tradition demanded.

By his order, Riven and the rest were allowed to return to Noxus.

Desertion was treason and Boram Darkwill would have had them all executed if they'd tried to cross the border. Such had always been the law. Nor did Riven delude herself. Many of the men with her on the dock were weak. They had fled before battle began, never so much as boarding the fated frigates, and returned only because in the intervening years they'd found they missed their civilian world, played out in the streets of Noxus instead of in her army. Cowards all, they would slip away from the dock and into anonymity and shame.

But for the others, the men who'd realized Noxus had built them up, left them fit for nothing but war and death - Swain said there was a place in the army once more for them all.

If anyone else were to make that claim, Riven would have been in Bilgewater still, living what she could of her life between contracts.

But Swain?

Slow, Riven turned away from the food cart and its line and towards the black-clad officers at the end of the pier.

She had no coin and there were debts to be paid.

The barracks left empty by Darkwill's repeated disasters were opened to the former soldiers who'd returned with only the clothes on their backs. Scowling clerks handed out plain uniforms to replace threadbare rags, organized them into squads and companies, distributed meal tokens, muttered about Noxus' overly warm welcome to deserters.

Instead of a room, Riven was assigned a bunk on the main floor.

She didn't complain.

She'd grown up in a bunk – first in the workhouse, then at the training grounds, then with her company.

Only officers had rooms and she wasn't an officer – not anymore.

That right, the right she'd bought with sweat and blood and years, so much of her life, was lost.

It had been taken from her.

She was starting over.

"How old are you?" the recruiter had asked, a lifetime ago. He'd been an older officer, too old to have a purpose anymore, standing on a street corner in the slums. All around them, the shanty town that ringed Noxus rose up, towering several stories and casting everything into shadow.

She'd clenched her fists, drawn herself up as best she could, underfed, gaunt, and answered, "Old enough."

The recruiter had been tired, he'd had a quota, she'd been one more tally for his log.

Her first barracks had looked as the one she'd been assigned this time did. Noxian barracks deviated little from the standard. A hundred bunks, all bolted to the floor, all in a single room, a heavy wood trunk at the foot of each bunk. Amber hextech lamps strung over the walkways between bunks that dimmed at the fifth watch. A door at one end of the hall, leading to the officer's quarters. A door at the other end of the hall, leading to the privy.

She'd been wrong. She hadn't been old enough.

She'd lagged behind the other recruits, bigger boys on the cusp of adulthood, more than half coming from citizen families, raised to serve and to fight.

But she'd made herself old enough, strong enough.

She'd worked harder than the rest, stayed up late moving through drills, again and again and again while her comrades laughed and drank and dreamed.

And when deployment came, she lived and they died.

Such was Noxus.

She'd found new comrades after that. Men who had seen war, survived it, and returned for more.

These men lived longer.

But they didn't live forever.

"Don't make friends with the dead," her captain had told her.

It was good advice to hear, easier still to give, impossible to follow.

The strong survive, but all men die.

As she continued to live and her comrades continued to fail, she rose. First she won citizenship, then commission, then, when her captain, the one man she'd trusted never to fall, fell, promotion, then, finally, command.

The path behind her had not been easy, the road ahead had not been easy, but the road ahead had tilted upwards and, like those boys alongside whom she'd first learned to fight, she'd dreamed. She'd won her place and it seemed she might continue to rise ever higher.

It had been a good dream.

Then Ionia.

Then Zaun.

Then.

Couer.

A valley filled with the graves of the men she hadn't been strong enough to save.

All her life, she'd only ever been strong enough to save herself.

In the barracks, surrounded by the restless shifting, snoring, and quiet weeping of her fellows, Riven slept poorly.

Her back was a mass of thick scar tissue, a poorly healed memento of acid burning through skin and muscle as she cowered in a ditch, muddy with blood, praying to gods she'd never believed in, whose names she couldn't remember, for the nightmare to end.

When she drifted too far from consciousness, her body ached.

Had she hoped coming home would ease that ache? She couldn't remember.

But why else would she have come back?

Morning muster was an easy habit, even after so much time away.

With all the others, Riven stood at attention in the barracks yard and was counted. On command, every man turned and fell into line seamlessly to march to the mess hall. It took more than desertion to break a lifetime of military discipline.

Breakfast was hardtack and salted beef.

Noxian army rations were tough to chew and, day in and day out for years, flavorless, but they were more than sufficient for survival.

Life quickly fell into a routine for Riven, like nothing she'd had in her years working in the eternal chaos of Bilgewater.

It was not an easy routine.

The commanders of the companies formed of once-deserters trusted in neither the courage nor the strength of their men. The drills they ordered were grueling, even to Riven who hadn't laid down her weapon in all the time she'd been away. Some men could barely drag themselves back to bed by the end of each day.

The one consolation was that deep exhaustion eased her sleep.

But exhaustion did little to temper discontent.

The commanders did not trust their men and, in return, the men trusted little in their commanders.

Nor did they trust Noxus.

Fury Company had not been alone in Ionia.

But still, they stayed. If they'd had anywhere else to go, they would never have re-enlisted.

For her part, Riven kept to herself. She knew nothing of her fellows except that they had fled the fields they'd marched to. Likely, that was all they knew of her. The easy comradery she'd shared with every company she'd served with in the past was nowhere in this new group of men. Would these men guard her flank in battle? Would these charge with her when the order was given?

It was a familiar fear. Bilgewater sells swords were notoriously unreliable. But she'd thought to leave the ever-gnawing doubt behind her when she crossed the gangway from free-nation ship to Noxian pier.

Soon though, it seemed, she'd have her answers.

In two months' time, enough time for the physical demands of the army to again become as simple as breathing, orders came. Deployment.

Swain was a strategic genius, but even he couldn't save the Demacian front with only the skeletal remains of the Noxian army, worn down to nothing after fighting three simultaneous wars. Too much had been lost trying to salvage the doomed Ionian campaign.

Perhaps Swain had welcomed the wayward sons of Noxus home as a gesture against Darkwills' follies.

Perhaps.

He had certainly done it to bolster the failing war in the west.

What rumblings there'd been among the men redoubled. They'd trusted Swain enough to take his clemency. They'd trusted Swain enough to take oaths again for Noxus. Did they trust Swain enough to die in a losing war? Did they trust Swain enough to win? Did they love Noxus enough?

And, still, most stayed. And they did what their commanders could not force them to. They prepared their minds again for war.

One by one the days counted down.

There was a part of Riven that burned with eager anticipation.

The Demacian front was where she'd learned to fight and to live. It was where the Noxian armies belonged – not in the north, not across the seas. Whatever else, it was right that Noxian soldiers hold the western border. When she'd been a green among other recruits all those years ago, it was in the west that they'd all dreamed of strength and glory.

Did her comrades now remember those dreams as well? Was that why they too stayed?

Too soon and too slowly, the final day before the march arrived.

Riven woke at sunrise with the rest of her company. They stood their muster, they marched to the mess hall.

Across everything lay a blanket of tension, a constant buzzing nervousness.

Riven was barely half done with her meal when someone behind her shouted, "Commander Riven?"

On edge already, she startled and tried to turn towards the voice. Sandwiched between two other soldiers on a bench at the mess table, she had to twist and crane her neck to see who it was.

The young man behind her wore the distinctive brown uniform of a runner, a soldier whose duties were to deliver the messages of his superiors. In the field, as they moved between companies and through enemy territory alone, they were respected and treated with something akin to awe. This man, however, was not a field runner. His uniform was too crisp, too clean, his face too soft to have ever seen war. His superiors were the officers who lived high up on the mountain and his kind were rarely seen among the barracks, much less in the mess.

On all sides, the soldiers around Riven had gone stiff and turned towards her. Displeased by the sudden attention and her own surprise at being addressed, she scowled at the boy.

As well-groomed as he was, he could only have come from High Command. What would High Command want of her?

Was the runner there to demand the return of her sword?

Riven's stomach, half-full of hardtack, twisted.

The sword, though it was as broken as the city that had forged it, hardly a weapon at all, once bright runes now so obscured by the corrosion of Zaun that they could hardly be seen, was all she had. But it was also the badge of a rank and an honor she'd given up.

If High Command demanded its return, what right did she have to refuse?

Riven's ever-simmering anger flared.

The right of blood. It was hers. It was hers, and, as she had in the past, she would kill to keep it.

Beneath Riven's intensifying scowl, the runner shifted nervously. He was untried and he was spineless as well. "Sir, General Darius orders you to report to him immediately."

Riven blinked. Her brow furrowed. Confusion replaced anger in the space of a heartbeat. "Darius?"

"Yes sir," the runner answered. "I am ordered to escort you to him. Immediately."

Darius.

Darius was the man who'd made Riven's dreams seem possible, years ago. He was the man who'd vouched for her strength and her ability to lead. He was the man who'd trusted her and had faith in her.

The man she'd failed.

How did he know that she'd returned? Was he watching the rolls so closely? Had her quiet homecoming meant so much to those in power that they noticed?

Why now?

Numbly, Riven extracted herself from the mess bench. The eyes of every soldier in the mess weighed heavy on her back as she followed the runner out into the crisp morning.

Whatever dread she'd felt at the prospect of High Command's attention was dwarfed by what she felt knowing that Darius had not forgotten her.

Though she hadn't left the military district since her return, the way to the summit of the mountain was familiar to her.

Soft though he was, the runner set a good pace going up towards the citadel of Noxus and they arrived at the gates of High Command long before midday. The short journey was still far too much time for Riven to dwell in anxiety. By the time they were walking through the gilt halls of the seat of the city, frayed nerves, nerves that stayed calm in the midst of pitched battles, had drowned out any real thought.

The runner took them far up into High Command, far higher than Darius' office had been when last she saw him. The dark wooden door they finally stopped before was decorated with a silvered emblem of Noxus.

From the other side of the closed door came the sounds of muffled shouting.

The runner reached out and knocked sharply.

The shouting quieted.

A voice. Darius' voice. Older. Terse. "Come in."

The runner nodded to Riven and slipped away down the hall.

Riven raised her hand. It wasn't shaking. Good. She grasped the door handle and opened the door.

Darius sat behind a desk. His younger brother, Draven, was draped over a chair in front of the desk.

Both men stared at Riven.

Riven stared back. She swallowed. "Sir."

Darius' face had always been dark from sun and weathered from a lifetime of long campaigns, but now it was tired. A stripe of gray ran through his black hair above his brow. His great axe, as large as he was, lay at rest, propped up against the far wall. The shine of polish on its blade was bright. It was well cared for and rarely used.

"Riven," Darius rumbled. It was a greeting, short, efficient, devoid of any cues to his mood or his purpose in calling her there. He was a soldier, first and foremost, and he'd never been one for small talk or pleasantries.

Draven, however, possessed not a shred of his brother's restraint. Surprise colored his voice. "Riven! You're alive!"

Though he was still smaller than Darius, Draven had put on a significant amount of muscle in the years since she'd last seen him. Ever true to himself, his outfit was an ostentatious mix of Noxian and Zaunite fashion that defied description. It looked like it may have been meant to recall armor of some sort, but, made with large cutouts to showcase his tattoos, it could offer nothing in the way of real protection. His long hair was pushed back and kept out of his face by a dark yellow headband decorated with, of all things, a print featuring a mustache much like Draven's own.

More important than his clothes was Draven's smile. He was smiling. That was a good sign. If Draven was smiling to see her, Darius was likely of a similar mind.

Riven cleared her throat. "Draven," she greeted.

Draven's smile morphed to a smirk. "Not Draven. Draven."

Riven couldn't hear the difference. She nodded at him anyway. She had never disliked Draven, but his ego made it hard to be fond of him. On Darius' advice, she'd always done her best to ignore his grandstanding and to proceed as if he weren't attempting to draw attention to himself.

Draven pointed at his strange headband. "Draven is a celebrity now. Got huge crowds, got adoring fans, got an autograph that-

"That's enough, Draven," Darius said. Behind his desk, he stood. Unlike his brother, he was dressed in a manner appropriate to High Command. His uniform, black with a trim of red and accents of gold, was the formal uniform of a general. The rank insignia on the collar of the jacket, three tiny golden Noxian emblems on each side, spoke his position as well. As a lieutenant general, years ago, he'd had only one to a side. "Commander," he said, addressing Riven, "It's good to see you well."

Riven had nothing to say to that, and so she said nothing.

Darius gestured to the seat Draven occupied. "Sit." He glanced at his brother. "You can go now."

Draven looked taken aback. "But what about-

Darius sat back down behind his desk. "My answer is no. Now, some of us have actual work to do. Leave."

Draven shrugged as he attempted not to look too put out while slinking out of the room. "Whatever, bro." Without prompting, he closed the door behind him.

As ordered, Riven took the now vacated seat in front of Darius' desk. Draven's antics had provided a brief distraction, but he was gone now and they were alone in the office.

A part of her wished to be small, small enough to hide.

Such a desire was not befitting of a Noxian.

She squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and waited to be addressed.

Darius leafed through a sheaf of papers left on the corner of his desk until he found what he was looking for. He slid it towards Riven.

Riven's lips pressed into a tight line and her brow furrowed.

She hadn't seriously attempted to read anything since before Couer.

The dark letters on the paper swam, unwilling to stay in place.

"It's a commission," Darius rumbled, never one to waste time. "I'm re-forming the Crimson Elite. I need a commander, someone able to assemble a company, command them, and command the respect of the children who call themselves High Command. You did that once for Fury Company. I need you to do it again."

Riven looked up from the paper. The Crimson Elite were the citadel guard, handpicked from the best soldiers from every quarter of Noxus and, though often kept far from the front lines of the battlefields, soaked in as much blood as any other division – more, even. Or, they had been. Long before she'd been born, Darkwill had disbanded them.

She frowned as she tried to choose which of the myriad questions swimming in her head she wanted to ask. It was not proper to question a superior, not his motivation, not his judgement. But still the questions bubbled up in her.

"You're hesitating," Darius said. His tone was sharp now.

There was no use in denying it. Riven nodded once.

"You came home, Riven," Darius said. "After what happened at Couer. After you survived." Darius leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, stared at Riven like he could bore a hole through her with his grey eyes alone. "But it took you years. Noxus needed you and you ran."

Riven's lips tightened.

"There were never many commanders of your caliber," Darius said. "And now we have even fewer. Will you serve Noxus as your strength allows, or will you go die on the border with the other cowards?"

Riven's hands became fists and the paper she held crumpled. She stood. "I am not a coward."

Darius hardly moved at her challenge. "I don't believe that you are. You came home."

Riven did not take her seat once more. Darius' words had blunted her anger but they hadn't dispelled it.

"So take your commission and do your duty," Darius rumbled. "Prove yourself. Command the Crimson Elite."


	21. Unearthed: Chapter 2

A/N: Hi. Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing and sticking with me all this time. It really means a lot to me.

Thank you to Deixis and CrimsonNoble for being great beta readers (and for helping with plot and characterization - writing for Riven instead of Katarina is pretty weird, ngl).

By the way, if you like Katariven fic, there's a fic called "Ode to the Undying, Hymn to the Dead" by LogosMinusPity over at AO3. It's a Greek mythology flavored Katariven AU and it's incredibly good.

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**Unearthed - Chapter Two**

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Unlike her first commission, Riven's new command came without ceremony or fanfare. There was no place in Swain's Noxus for needless shows of wealth and power, not when it had a backbone of strength to rely on. Darius gave her the paper, gave her a slate of orders, and that was that.

She left High Command in a daze, unsure what she felt and what she ought to feel.

Certainly, anger still gnawed at her.

Too many times, her courage had been questioned for her actions in Ionia.

In the past, she'd given little weight to whispers. She knew herself. She knew what she had done and why she had done it.

But hearing the same accusation from Darius, no matter that he'd quickly recanted, had cut far deeper than any past accusations hurled at her.

It had made her blood boil.

It had made her doubt herself, and that was unacceptable.

Descending from the summit of Noxus, Riven quickened her pace.

When change came, it came fast. Two months she'd spent idling away, as she and her comrades remembered how to be soldiers. And now, this.

For the night, she was allowed to return to her barracks. There was precious little time left in the day to travel to the foot of the mountain and return as well. But the next day, when the rest of her company began their march towards Demacia, she was to move to new quarters, quarters located in High Command itself.

The Crimson Elite would be housed in its traditional lodging, sealed since their disbandment. As it stood, Riven was the only member. Finding men to fill the ranks was one of the most pressing tasks set to her by Darius. The company – half-company, really – would take orders only from him, or herself, as well. With the three golden insignia fixed to his collar, Darius was second in Noxus only to the Grand General.

Even so, her new command was not a role she was comfortable with. She'd been trained to march mile after mile, to keep formation in the heat of battle, and to survive. Though she'd never been formally trained as an officer, she'd followed the examples set by her past captains and she'd lead as well as any other commander, first to charge, never to falter.

Her place was in the field.

But now Noxus needed her elsewhere.

Swain lead now, but there was much work to be done, still, to repair the damage of Darkwill's reign. Darkwill's loyalists still held some power in the city, still agitated against Swain's command. But the Crimson Elite, Riven's Crimson Elite, would aid the transition. They would support Swain's High Command with their strength as the last vestiges of Darkwill's rot were swept away.

This was Darius' charge.

Years ago, when Riven had still served under her captain, Darius had begun his great purge of the old guard, useless and corrupt aristocrats who preferred the safety of retreat to the glory of victory. He and Swain together had renewed those efforts with the fall of the old Grand General, but many still remained and the two generals were busy men.

Once, she'd looked up to Darius for the swathe he'd cut through High Command's ranks.

As news trickled from the city out to the front lines, Riven and the rest of the soldiers perpetually manning the Demacian border had celebrated. Finally one of their own was setting things right. It was personal, even, because Riven's captain had served with Darius when they'd both been young men.

Who among them hadn't dreamed of being like Darius?

Now, Riven found herself poised to emulate him.

It felt wrong.

Who was she, a former deserter only recently returned, to lead a second cleansing of High Command?

The legend of Darius said that when he saw cowardice in his captain, he took his axe and then he took the man's head. Then, he lead his comrades to victory. When the campaign was won, he marched home to Noxus and continued his cleansing.

When Riven saw the cowardice of Zaun, she fled.

Cowardice for cowardice.

But she wasn't a coward.

She knew herself and she was not a coward.

What was more, Darius was her general. He was an honest man, a soldier at heart. She knew better than to trust, but she trusted him.

If he ordered it, she would obey.

And beneath her swirling doubts, Riven felt fire.  
By virtue of the memory of her strength, she'd been again raised up from the barracks to command, higher, this time, than before. By all rights it had been her lot to spend the rest of her good years as a foot soldier, marching, fighting, dying. Even welcomed back, there was little chance of promotion for the men who'd once been deserters.

Was that what she had returned to Noxus intending to do? To march for the rest of her life?

To do as Darius had suggested she might – to die on the border while the city crumbled?

No. It couldn't have been.

She'd returned answering her need for home, but surely she'd still had her ambitions.

To be strong and to rise was the driving force of every Noxian.

Was she not still a Noxian?

Couer, Darkwill's Noxus, had taken everything she'd worked for, everything she'd earned, but it hadn't taken her dream.

Whatever she'd felt the previous day, whatever dark thoughts she entertained now, she now undeniably was warmed by the sparks of old desire rekindling. If she closed her eyes, perhaps she could pretend that nothing had ever gone wrong, that she'd never gone to Ionia. But – no – before Ionia, she'd lived in a different Noxus, a Noxus willing to bend the knee to Zaun in the name of expedience. This new Noxus, it was better. It was Noxus as Noxus was meant to be.

Because of Swain.

Because of Darius.

Darius was again putting his trust in her. She wouldn't fail him, not this time.

It was good to have direction again.

Riven's footfalls stayed light all the way to her barracks. She passed her comrades in silence. She knew none of them well enough to converse, and they knew too little of her to ask her whereabouts or news.

Her steps only faltered when she arrived at her bunk.

It was as she'd left it, save for the black rose lying on the pillow.

Wary and tense, Riven's eyes flickered across the room. What men were present were occupied with their own business. No one seemed ill at ease. No one seemed out of place. Had anyone seen someone leave the rose on her bunk, surely they'd say something. Even if they didn't speak, their actions would signal their knowledge. They would be anxious, they would be looking in her direction, they would be fidgeting. Not a soul in the room acted out of the ordinary.

Slow, Riven reached down towards the bloom. She recognized it - flower sellers on the streets sometimes had roses, though their roses were always red or pink - but she'd never held a rose, never smelled one. Riven took the rose by the stem, then immediately dropped it with a hiss of pain. Closer inspection revealed thorns. She hadn't known roses had thorns. There was a pinpoint of blood on her finger where she'd been cut, but it was barely a scratch. More careful this time, Riven picked up the flower again.

The scent of the rose was thick and sweet. It wasn't like anything else Riven had smelled before.

Still minding the thorns, she placed it on top of the locker at the foot of her bunk.

Who would leave a rose on her pillow? Forgetting who would do such a thing, who could do such a thing? Excepting musters and drills, the main hall of a barracks was rarely empty and unescorted strangers were unwelcome.

Riven's heart skipped a beat.

Katarina.

In her long years away, Riven's mind had turned to her former lover more than a few times. In self-indulgent flights of fancy, she'd sometimes imagined that Katarina might find her, take her home to Noxus. A woman of Katarina's position certainly would have had that power. Or maybe Riven would dream that a word from the daughter of the General Du Couteau had spared Fury Company from the Melters.

Why waste dreams on small things?

Other times, Riven had wondered how quickly she'd been forgotten.

Her days in exile had stretched on endlessly and torturing herself had become just another way of passing the time.

But most days, Riven hadn't given the woman a single thought.

She assumed that Katarina herself must have had much the same disposition. Less thought, even, for Riven than Riven for her because everyone in Fury Company would have been reported as dead.

What had she been to Katarina, that, dead, she might deserve remembrance?

Friends came and went.

Lovers came and went.

The rose could not have come from Katarina.

Even if she'd cared, she dealt in steel, not in flowers.

No matter how much Riven wished the rose were hers -

Riven shook her head to clear it.

She'd had years to move on. Now, poised to return to her upward path in Noxus, the path she should have never been forced to leave, now was not the time to dwell on a single past lover.

So who left the rose?

Riven frowned.

If she was meant to know, she'd know already. If there were a message for her, it would have been left in such a way that she'd understand it. So someone left the rose to tell her that they, some mysterious they, existed. That was the extent of it.

It wasn't a threat. A threat was meaningless if it wasn't understood.

Even so, Riven slept that night clutching her shattered sword.

The feeling that she being watched haunted her uneasy sleep.

When she woke, the rose was still lying on her trunk.

Riven took her sword, trimmed the thorns away, and took the flower with her, tucking it into her belt when she departed the barracks for her new quarters in High Command.

Regardless of who left the rose and for what reason, she'd never had a rose before.

When she arrived at the gates of High Command, a runner was there waiting for her.

"Commander Riven, I presume," the runner greeted.

It was not at all the proper way to address a superior, but Riven hadn't been a superior officer in years and she was caught off guard by the fact that the runner was a woman. While it wasn't unheard of for a women to walk the halls of High Command or serve in the army, clearly Riven did both, it was rare enough to draw attention.

Unlike the runner of the previous day, this one did not seem soft. She wasn't hard either though. There was something maddeningly indeterminate about her. She wasn't young and she wasn't old. Her hair was dark, but many in Noxus had dark hair. It did not escape Riven's attention that she was quite attractive, but there was also something unsettling about her that made the soldier's skin crawl.

Riven pushed all those thoughts back. Before her stood a runner. In Noxus, function came before form.

"Yes, runner?" Riven replied curtly.

"I'll lead you to your new quarters today," the runner said.

Riven nodded. Her jaw was tight with unease.

As they traveled through the corridors of High Command, the runner didn't speak again.

The rooms reserved for the Crimson Elite were part of the basement level of the compound. Had they been any higher, it was likely they would not have remained in disuse as they had.

Leading the way, the runner came to a halt before a great steel door. If three men stood side by side with their arms extended, that was the width of the door, and it was easily the height of those three men, higher perhaps. In the amber hextech light of the caverns beneath High Command, the metal of the door gleamed. Though the corridor was dark, Riven could make out chisel marks in the stone all around the entryway. The rooms beyond may have lain empty for years, but the door was new.

The hinges of the door showed that it opened not inwards but outwards.

Riven's hand drifted towards the hilt of her broken sword.

The runner raised a glowing hand towards the door.

The runner wasn't a runner.

In an instant, Riven was moving. She kicked out a leg, sweeping the not-runner's legs out from under her while at the same time yanking her sword from its makeshift sheath at her side.

The not-runner caught her fall on her arms and rolled, but Riven was faster. She'd spent her life in the army and then what seemed like a whole second lifetime brawling in Bilgewater bars and on rocking ship's decks. As fast as she'd swept the not-runner's legs, she had a knee planted on the small of the other woman's back, pinning her to the floor, and the jagged edge of her sword resting lightly against the soft place where the not-runner's skull met her spine. Riven used her other hand to grind one of the not-runner's shoulders into the stone floor.

With anyone else, she might have relied more on her body and less on her sword to keep the not-runner down, but she wanted to be able to put as much space between her and the other woman at a moment's notice, if need be.

Short of severing both hands, it was nearly impossible to fully incapacitate a mage. This particular mage hadn't done anything against Riven, yet, and maiming or killing a true messenger of High Command was a treason far less easily pardoned than desertion.

The not-runner chuckled, confident, as if she were still in control of the situation.

Riven said nothing. She pressed her sword down, not enough to cut, but enough to threaten. Actions spoke louder than words. Her meaning was clear enough.

"Don't you want to see your new command?" the not-runner asked. Amusement colored her tone.

Riven fought down the growl building deep in her throat. "Who are you?"

If the not-runner was at all perturbed by her situation, she didn't show it. "My friends call me Evaine."

And what did the rest call her?

It was clear that no matter how hard Riven pressed, she'd gain nothing from continuing that line of questioning. Did she even trust she'd been given a real name? No. Anger made Riven tighten her grip on her sword, twisting the blade ever so slightly, biting into the not-runner's neck. Despite being the one holding the weapon, Riven was losing control of the situation, if ever she'd had any control at all. She squeezed the fingers of her other hand, digging them as deeply and painfully as she could into the not-runner's shoulder. "Why are you here?" she demanded.

The not-runner's voice betrayed not a hint of discomfort. "I'm here to open your door for you," she said.

Riven grunted but didn't let the not-runner up.

The not-runner scoffed. "No wonder Darius carries such fondness for you. You're just like him. Very strong and not very bright."

Already angry, now Riven's blood boiled. She wasn't smart, not like so many other officers, not like the nobles and merchants with their books and numbers and number books. But she was smart enough to do whatever she needed to do, and she was more than strong enough to make up for any other failings.

In Riven's brief moment of distraction, the not-runner beneath her flickered, staying solid for a moment, then becoming as air. Riven dropped through her. Her knee, previously braced on the not-runner's back, slammed into the floor, as did her sword.

The not-runner now stood once more before the great steel door. She passed her hand over the surface, drawing symbols in the air, leaving a pale purple mist in her wake.

Even if Riven could succeed in again pinning the not-runner, she couldn't see anything productive coming from it. She settled for standing back up and edging away from the other woman.

Mages.

With a final flourish, the not-runner stepped back from the door. The purple mist dissipated. "There," the not-runner said. "I've removed my seal."

Still lacking a reason to trust the other woman, Riven gestured with her sword. "Open it."

Copying Riven's gesture with her hand, the not-runner replied, "It's your door, commander."

Riven's nostrils flared, her anger not forgotten. "You said you're here to open it. Open it."

The not-runner smiled smugly. "So I did," she said. Her fingers curled slightly, the purple mist gathering once more.

Maddeningly slow, the door swung open.

Beyond the door lay a great and dark cavern – not unsurprising given the rest of the basement levels of High Command. The darkness was lessened by soft hextech bulbs glowing at regular intervals all along the walls.

As best Riven could tell, the cavern served as a great hall with a multitude of rooms branching off from it. It was a barracks, but like not barracks Riven had ever seen. Every soldier, it seemed, would be accorded their own room. Curiosity leached away her anger, but, still mindful of the way the hinges had faced, she didn't cross the threshold.

If nothing else, her time in Bilgewater had taught her caution.

At the farthest end of the hall was a dim red light.

Riven squinted.

The light was growing brighter and larger – it was coming closer.

Beneath her feet, the ground trembled.

Riven glanced over at the not-runner.

The not-runner was gone.

She looked back towards the red light, but it was gone, not in the distance, it was on top of her almost, giant, hulking, a grey monster, an axe coming down -

Riven raised her sword just in time to stop the axe from splitting her in two.

The shock of the impact rattled her teeth, made her knees scream in pain. Her arms collapsed and the flat of her own blade slammed into her forehead, knocking her back and to the ground.

Darkness ate at the edges of her vision and the world swam.

Stumbling away from the red light, Riven threw up her sword again, against the blur of motion she thought she saw – and indeed it had been the axe, again trying to cleave her.

She was lucky, this time.

Her desperate attempt to block the incoming blow caught the perfect angle and the force of the axe didn't knock her from her feet once more.

Somewhat recovered now from the monster's first strike, Riven darted forward.

The thing was huge, almost as large as the corridor itself, and its axe was similarly sized.

She didn't pause to consider what may have become of her if the thing had had room enough for a full swing.

Adrenaline gave her the disregard for safety that she needed to throw herself to the floor, letting her left shoulder take the full brunt of impact as she slid beneath the creature, through its legs, to emerge behind it. Standing again, Riven snarled. Her shoulder screamed. A quick flex of her fingers showed it was still working though. Good.

She took half a step back and then she was running forward, jumping up.

With her left hand, she caught onto one of the spikes protruding from the monster's pauldron and then she used her momentum to swing herself up, high enough to plunge her broken sword into the base of the thing's neck, right in the hollow of its right shoulder, above the collarbone.

If it had had two pauldrons instead of the one, the maneuver wouldn't have worked.

Instead of falling like a living, feeling, thing might have, the monster laughed.

It wasn't a laugh of pain. It was a laugh of utter amusement.

The thing's laugh was guttural, made ragged by whatever sick necromancy powered it, but, beneath the distortion, Riven recognized it.

Suspended across its back by her grip on the hilt of her sword, blade still buried in dead flesh, and her rapidly failing grip on the thing's armor, Riven froze.

She remembered a slowly decaying corpse, skin tinged green by rot. She remembered the exposed bone of a jaw, a limp tongue struggling to form words. She remembered a chilling crimson gaze, unblinking.

She remembered nothing of a hulking grey beast, several heads taller than the tallest Noxian soldier, and with the bulk to match. She remembered nothing of quaking ground and black iron armor.

But the laugh was unmistakable.

"Captain?"


	22. Unearthed: Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to Deixis, CrimsonNoble, and Balabalabagan for beta reading for me (also for being very patient in dealing with my eternal insecurities, lol).

And thanks to everyone who's still reading!

Lore Note - I'm trying to go for a fusion of old Sion and reworked Sion in terms of aesthetic and personality and character. I really like the feel of the narrative for the reworked Sion (as much as I dislike the current "lore," they did an amazing job with reworked Sion as a cohesive character), but I also liked the old green dude. Sion also sort of existed in his green form in Burials, way far in the background, so I also felt I couldn't completely switch to the reworked version now. So this is a compromise.

Edit: Uh, I may or may not be working on a re-write starting from about halfway through the first chapter of Unearthed, so maybe don't get too attached to anything...

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If her dead captain heard her, he gave no indication of it.

A slight shift in the monster's weight was all the warning Riven had before he pivoted, turning his back to the wall to slam against it.

With neither the proper leverage nor the time to pry her sword free from the thing's neck, Riven let go of her handholds and dropped to the floor, narrowly avoiding being crushed.

Her opponent was slow, recovering from his collision with the wall with all the grace of a crippled ox, and that gave her a half moment to think.

She wanted to put distance between them, but she didn't want to give him any chance to build momentum. However, being flattened beneath his feet by staying close seemed a far more sure death.

Riven scrambled away. As she pushed herself up from the floor, regaining her footing, she grabbed hold of a loose rock, a leftover from when the new door was installed.

Her opponent having remained standing after taking a sword to his neck, a rock, even one as large as the one she'd found, would hardly be any help, but it was better than nothing.

Recovered now, her captain advanced one lumbering step at a time. Riven matched him, retreating, taking two steps for every one of his.

She was retreating back into the cavern of the barracks, where he would have all the space he needed to swing his axe with full force. It couldn't be helped though. She wasn't willing to attempt to dive through his legs again to reverse positions a second time. Tricks rarely worked more than once. Underestimating an opponent was how good soldiers died.

The enemy before her now didn't seem to feel pain and was, apparently, unable to die.

If he didn't feel pain, she doubted he'd tire. But she was made of flesh and blood powered by a beating heart. If it came to a battle of attrition, her constantly dodging and never striking effectively, she would lose.

Her captain swung his axe across his body, sweeping across a broad area in front of him.

Riven darted back, widening the space between them further.

At the end of his swing, he shifted his grip, taking the axe in two hands and raising it far above his head.

With such a long windup, Riven had enough time to throw herself to the side.

When the axe met the floor, stone chips exploded outwards. A few larger ones sprayed into Riven's face, leaving it covered in blood – far too much blood, enough to drip down, she couldn't take the time to assess, but she knew at least one of the cuts was deep.

If it came to a battle of attrition, she would lose sooner rather than later.

The monster shifted back to wielding its axe, the size of which dwarfed even Darius' weapon, in a single hand.

And then it's jaw, a metal thing of bolts and weld lines, moved. "Blood. Blood. It's been… too long."

Together, Riven and her captain circled one another.

He laughed. He spoke. Maybe she didn't have to fell him. She only needed to prove her strength.

How.

Again he swung, again Riven managed to avoid being cleaved in two.

Years ago, years and years ago, when Demacia was the only front Noxus marched to, her captain's lieutenant and an entire squad died in an ambush along what should have been a safe road.

At muster the next day, her captain took his axe, his dearest possession, and dropped it on the ground. "First to pick it up is lieutenant," he said.

He sat back and laughed as man after man failed to lift the weapon.

Everyone mourns in their own way.

Riven gripped her rock tighter. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on the movement of the massive axe as it rose and fell and rose again.

She needed the axe.

Somehow.

She'd have to get close, fight for it where she wasn't pitting her strength against his and against bad leverage as well.

How.

A lifetime ago, the positions had been reversed. She'd been the juggernaut, wielding a sword that stood as tall as she did, that was as broad as her shoulders.

Katarina had been fast and agile and reckless enough to do what until then Riven had never even considered.

Riven wasn't as fast as the assassin, wasn't as agile, wasn't so brash, but her captain was slow and she had no other plan.

Fueled by a fresh burst of adrenaline, Riven dashed to the side and forward, putting her well within range of the most deadly part of her captain's axe. He took the bait splendidly, swinging horizontally, giving her the broad surface she needed.

Trusting her strength, Riven leapt up, twisting in the air, spinning so she was parallel to the weapon. Her shoulder slammed into the flat of the axehead. With her empty hand, she grabbed at the shaft of the axe so she wouldn't be thrown loose, then yanked herself forward coming close to the enormous hand that controlled the weapon.

He'd always had a habit of holding his axe too high. Even he had found the massive chunk of steel heavy.

Grimly clinging to the shaft of the axe, Riven raised her other hand and slammed her rock down on her captain's fingers.

She was rewarded with the sound of shattering bone.

Her captain may now have been immune to pain and death, but a mangled hand could only do so much.

The axe slipped from his fingers, falling to the floor, and Riven with it.

Even before she'd reached the ground, Riven dropped her rock and got both hands around the axe.

It was heavier than she remembered.

Her sword had been broken, corroded down by Zaunite acid until, thin and brittle, it shattered. She hadn't swung a weapon as large as the axe in years.

She wasn't as strong as she'd been.

But she wasn't weak.

Riven ground her teeth, straining at the effort it took to raise the axe as she backed away from the monster before her. Her shoulder, injured as it was from the beginning of their duel, screamed in protest.

If she faltered, she would die.

One step back, two steps back, three steps and her captain didn't try to follow.

Burning red eyes bored into her with an intensity that shouldn't belong to the dead and the furnace in her captain's chest was equally bright. His voice – it sent a shiver down Riven's spine when he spoke. His voice sounded like him, but at the same time it didn't. It was bestial in a way unnatural to him. "Girl."

Riven took another step back. Her heart, beating fast already from fighting for her life, sped up. She was suddenly keenly aware of the sweat beaded on her brow, the blood dripping from her chin, the way the leather strips of the axe grip felt under her fingers, the sound of her breathing in the high vaulted cavern. He recognized her then? It truly was him? "Captain," she answered, fighting to stop her voice from wavering.

Once, when times had been simple, she had counted her captain as one of her closest friends. She'd trusted him with her life, in battle and in the uncertain moments of peace accorded to a soldier.

And when he'd died, cut down in a reckless charge, she'd wanted for nothing else but for him to have survived, to have lived, to have him still.

But not like this.

She'd dreamed him leading her again – alive. Not dead.

The dead were meant to stay dead. They deserved their rest.

What was she to make of this thing before her now?

"Girl, you broke my hand," he rumbled. "Good." Finger by finger, he flexed his mangled hand. If it hurt, his face didn't show it. Crack, crack, crack – broken bones shifting and grinding in ways they shouldn't.

Riven shivered. Noxus was known throughout Valoran for being second only to the shadowy eastern isles in its count of risen corpses, but no soldier, even a Noxian, ever felt entirely comfortable with things that were never meant to be.

For the time being though, there were matters more pressing than her unease.

The blood on her face was no longer running as freely as before, but, from the way the skin burned, the cuts would need to be addressed. Not now though. They were minor injuries and they could wait. At least one of the cuts was deep, but she was in no danger at all of bleeding out. The pain could be ignored.

In her hands, her captain's axe was beginning to slip. Her injured shoulder was growing no stronger. She couldn't hold on forever. Would he attack if she put the weapon down? She had to let go soon, while she could still choose in what fashion she dropped it.

Deliberately, Riven raised her arms so that she held the axe out before her at shoulder height. And then she let go.

The steel dropped fast and when it landed it lay unmoving, far too heavy to bounce or clatter.

Her captain watched the weapon fall, but he didn't move.

For now then, he was pacified.

Would it last?

In life, her captain had been famed for the berserker's rage that took him and carried him across the battlefield, leaving a swathe of carnage in his wake. He'd been majestic in his brutality. The men of his company had always given him a wide berth at the end of the battles and in return he'd never turned against them.

In death, it seemed, the rules might not be the same.

If it came to it, she knew she lacked the strength to put him down.

But, in the moment, he was calm. And he knew her.

Riven wet her lips. "Sir," she began, and then stopped herself. In life, he'd been her captain. Years after his life, however, she had risen and he was dead. "Sion," she said, trying to chase confusion and doubt out of her voice, to replace them with the steel of confidence. "I am here as your commander."

The words rolled off her tongue easily. She had broken his hand and taken his axe. He would respect her as his superior, if there was anything left of Noxus in him. It was right that it be so.

Sion regarded her with unblinking red eyes.

Those red eyes were practically the only thing that had remained unchanged about him from when last she'd seen him.

Riven remembered him as he was mere months after the necromancers had finished their work with him. He'd been a half-rotten husk of a beast chained down in a small cell. The chains had hardly been necessary. Even as she approached, the only motion he made was to move his burning eyes, tracking her path across his cell.

She'd spoken to him, then.

He'd said nothing in reply. His lower jaw had been completely missing, leaving a moldy tongue to hang limp and useless.

Had he mind enough then to wish to speak?

The question haunted her for weeks and months after. As the years passed though, it had fallen from her mind, as had he.

In those intervening years, he'd been repaired - somewhat. The green tinge of necrotic flesh was gone, replaced by a dull, desiccated grey. Iron was bolted into him, covering what once had been exposed bone. He had a working mouth again.

He used that mouth to laugh. "Then what are your orders, girl? Where do we march and whom do we kill?"

Driven by instinct, Riven answered by rote. "We march west to kill the enemies of Noxus, wherever we find them." She knew these words as well as she knew her sword.

"We take what we will," Sion continued. The depth of his rumbling voice sounded like the roar of a company readying themselves for war.

"Victorious, we are strong," Riven replied, her volume growing, not matching Sion's, but nearing it.

"Weak, we are dead," her captain finished. He reached up to his neck and pulled Riven's weapon free. The blade was clean and dry, entirely bloodless. Sion tossed it back to her. "You are my commander," he said, "So command."

With the ease of a lifetime's experience, Riven reached out and caught her sword by the hilt.

For the first time since returning to Noxus, Riven felt herself grinning.

The deep seated sense of wrongness lingered in her, but it was smothered by the radiant joy of what she wanted to believe. Sion, her captain, her friend, here he was before her. He was dead, he was wrong, but he moved and he spoke and he knew her – it was so easy to think him alive.

It was good, not being alone.

But what now?

Riven's orders had been to review her new quarters and then to report to Darius. There was little to see in the cavern. The central chamber was vast and empty, large enough to be a parade ground for muster and drills. High Command had its own mess hall for the officers who spent their days in the seat of Noxus, relieving any need for this barracks to run a kitchen. The various individual chambers were thus far unoccupied. The first half of her orders were complete then.

And that brought her to her first problem of command.

The chaos of battle and the confusion of emotions that had followed it had blotted out most thought, yes, but not to the point that she was blind to caution. She'd come too near to death to forget the bloodrage she'd faced not even an hour prior. She did not trust Sion left alone. She knew nothing of his rebirth. Would he devolve once more if… what might trigger that?

Was he fit to walk the halls of High Command?

A silly question. Her captain had always been a pillar of strength, a Noxian through and through. None were as fit as he to walk High Command.

So they would go together to Darius.

Riven felt anger flush her cheeks. Had he known Sion was here? Had he known and failed to warn her?

Darius would have answers. And if he did not have answers, Riven would find the answers she sought and take them for herself.

"Follow me," Riven said.

Sion lifted his black axe from where it lay on the floor at Riven's feet and he did as he was ordered.

Riven lead them first to the infirmary near the training rooms. In another life, she'd had an office in the basement of High Command and she'd gained some familiarity with the labyrinthine layout of halls and rooms given to the less important members of the Noxian government.

This particular infirmary was not so much an infirmary as it was a supply room with clean water and mirrors. In the past, she'd heard that there was a real medical center higher up in the compound that was staffed, but, for her purposes, the basement one sufficed. She quickly cleaned the cuts on her face – now that she could examine them she saw that they weren't serious, just bloody and uncomfortable – and then she departed again, heading upwards.

The way up to Darius' office was simple to navigate. Although she'd been there only once before, she had an excellent sense of direction that not even the winding of High Command's corridors could dull.

As they passed through the halls, men stopped in their tracks and they stared, not bothering to feign some other activity. The attention made Riven's skin crawl. She'd been away for so long that it was hard to remember that she belonged here. She found little comfort in reminding herself that the onlookers were staring at Sion and not her.

When they finally reached their destination, the hall outside of Darius' office, as remote and high as it was in the building, was, mercifully, empty, save for the hunched figure of Draven leaning up against the wall across from his brother's door.

At Riven and Sion's approach, Draven looked up and sneered. His eyes lingered on Sion's hulking form, but they soon shifted to Riven. "Oh, so he'll see you but he won't make time for Draven. His own brother."

Riven was interested in neither provoking Draven nor taking part in a family quarrel. Whatever her feelings, it wasn't her place to express them. She had to respond somehow though. Draven was not a bad man and, strange though he was, he was strong enough to merit some respect. She cleared her throat. "I'm here on business." She made a small gesture to indicate Sion behind her, hoping Draven would interpret it as a sense of immediacy, urgency, that her business was near, and let her disengage from conversation.

Draven crossed his arms. Combined with his slouch, it made him seem even more petulant than before. "So am I."

As Draven either didn't understand her intent or didn't care to respond to it, Riven stepped forward and to the side, towards Darius' door. She raised her hand to knock but unexpected movement behind her made her pause and turn back.

Sion was crouched down, face shoved up close to Draven's face.

Draven, for his part, stood stock still. His eyes were wide and, if fear had a scent, Riven knew the air would reek of it. Perhaps she had overestimated him.

"What," Sion rumbled, "are you?"

Draven snarled and drew himself up. "I'm Draven. The Glorious Executioner of Noxus, in the flesh."

"You smell," Sion began. Despite having no need for air, he inhaled deeply. "Weak."

Riven thought to intervene, but she hesitated. In life, Sion's sense of humor had kept the company's spirits aloft even during the long months they spent summering in the swamps along the northwestern borders. In death, it seemed he had not lost his penchant for terrorizing the unsuspecting.

It was strange how, when she thought of how she'd missed him, she'd always remembered him for his strength. She'd forgotten the smaller things.

To his credit, Draven did not back down. Years ago, Riven thought, he would have. "And you smell like a corpse," he replied.

Sion chuckled. Then, without warning, he lurched forward, knocking his forehead into Draven's.

Draven went sprawling.

Sion's chuckle turned into his full, booming, laugh. Riven found herself joining in, though much more quietly.

In an instant, Draven was back up on his feet. His empty hands were clenched tight into fists. Rage contorted his face. "Don't you dare laugh at me," he hissed.

Riven's laughter faltered, but Sion's continued, stronger now.

Darius' door opened.

Of the three in the hall, only Riven came to attention for the general. Sion quieted as the focus of his attention shifted. Draven remained silent.

Looking no less weary than he had the previous day, Darius scanned the scene. His gaze finally came to rest on the enormous axe held in Sion's left hand. Darius' perpetual frown deepened.

So Darius hadn't known then.

"Sion," Darius said, tone even. He turned towards Riven. "Where did you find him?"

"He was in the barracks, sir," Riven answered.

Darius grunted, giving an acknowledgement that he'd heard her. He stepped back into his office. When he reemerged, he was holding his own gleaming axe, taken from its resting place. From his stance, it was clear he intended to use it.

With no small amount of alarm, Riven asked, "Sir?"

"The dead are meant to stay dead," Darius said. "There's no place for his kind in Noxus."

Sion shifted, tightening his grip on his weapon. He sneered. "Do you challenge me, little man?"

Darius looked visibly shaken by Sion's words alone. He shifted into a solid stance.

"Sir," Riven cut in. If Darius and Sion fought, one of them would end in pieces. "I want him for my Crimson Elite."

Darius didn't reply immediately, but nor did he advance. He was thinking.

Riven's lips tightened. Darius was fiercely protective of his brother, regardless of whether Draven needed or deserved it. But she'd said her piece already. There was nothing more she could add.

Finally, Darius spoke. "Riven, my office, now. Draven… Sion… Wait."

"Bro," Draven said, voice plaintive.

Darius had already turned his back on his way towards his open door. "Draven - I trust you can take care of yourself."


	23. Unearthed: Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you to Balabalabagan, CrimsonNoble, and Deixis for beta-reading for me.

Housekeeping - So a couple chapters ago, SixPerfections pointed out how odd it was LeBlanc and Co were so up front about things. And I thought I had a good reason for it, and then I squinted a bit, realized how bad my justification sounded, and decided "ehhhhh not so much." So I went back and edited that bit down a little (LeBlanc no longer identifies herself as being with The Black Rose). And while I was doing edits, I went back to the first chapter and made it longer, tried to slow down the pacing a little (so I switched the timeline up a bit - Riven has now been in Noxus for two months instead of two days). I also overhauled Riven's initial conversation with Darius because I didn't feel it was quite in character for him (he is now more confrontational and does a slightly better job of explaining his intentions), and that then caused some edits in the second chapter covering Riven's reaction to that conversation. Overall, I think the edits improve how well things flow and the general read, but I didn't change anything substantial enough that it requires going back. Generally, this fic has been having issues because doing the work to get Riven properly set up in Noxus is kind of boring and also kind of hard - but also necessary (I won't bore you with a dissertation on my interpretation of her character). I think things smooth out towards the end of this chapter though, and should be better going forward - especially because Katarina is coming back Soon (tm). IDK tho. I can't shake the feeling I've made some major errors that warrant deleting and starting over at some point in the future when I have more time.

tl;dr - I did some a fair amount of editing in the first few chapters that I think really improves quality, but you don't have to care. And Katarina isn't back this chapter, but she'll be back next chapter.

Anyway. Thank you for sticking with me, sorry the last few chapters have been not what they could be, I'm trying to do better.

* * *

Darius laid down his axe next to his desk before taking a seat, back upright and stiff with his arms crossed over his chest. It was the pose of a man who would prefer to stand, would prefer actions to words, who didn't quite understand the notion or the stillness of sitting. A frown dominated his features and, reading the lines of his face, it was clear he spent most of his time frowning.

Riven sat across from him. Behind her, they had left the door ajar. No matter the harshness of his words to the younger man, Darius would never risk his brother's life.

"There's blood on your shirt," Darius said.

Riven looked down. Indeed, her front was splattered with blood – hers. She'd cleaned the cuts on her face, but hadn't given any thought to her clothes. The garments she'd worn in Bilgewater had been perpetually stained with blood, sometimes hers, sometimes someone else's, and it had never been worth the effort to clean or replace them. Before then, the black uniform of a Noxian officer hid blood and dirt splendidly. The off-white tunic she wore now, though, the standard issue to a foot soldier quartered in the city, was a different story entirely. It was meant to be kept clean. It was a sign of discipline.

But even if she'd noticed the great brown splotches of dried blood earlier, there'd been no opportunity to wash her clothes. It couldn't have been helped and thus she had nothing to regret.

"I broke his hand," Riven replied.

Darius grunted, signaling that she'd been heard. He showed no signs of surprise, neither disbelief nor admiration.

Riven said nothing more.

Darius was the superior officer here. It was for him to drive whatever conversation there might be.

The hallway outside the office remained silent as well. Good. If Draven were in danger, he'd be in danger loudly. And – Sion – if Sion acted, it would not be quiet.

"I went for him after we disposed of Kieran," Darius rumbled. "To put him out of his misery. He wasn't in his cell. I couldn't find him." Resting in the crook of his elbows, his hands balled into fists. His tone bore the edge of anger. "I looked. Everywhere."

The implications of Darius' words swirled in Riven's mind, but they were dulled by exhaustion. The adrenaline of her fight had worn off now and the weight of the day's events, the day that was only half over, was beginning to settle on her. The tremendous speed of change around her was overwhelming.

"I thought Darkwill finally found the stones to do it himself," Darius said. For a moment, his face twisted with disdain.

Riven wet her lips, choosing her words. Darius was a Noxian through and through. Once he set his mind to something, it would be nigh impossible to dissuade him from action. "He's not like he was before. He's not _dead_ anymore."

Darius flicked a few fingers forward, indicating the bloodstains on Riven's shirt. Annoyance colored his voice. "I can see that." He paused, then, "It's like he's who he was before."

Riven nodded her agreement. Darius' words were leaning in Sion's favor, in her favor, now – she hoped.

"You remember him," Darius said. It wasn't a question. "You remember him right after."

Again, Riven nodded. Gooseflesh rippled on her arms.

"I'll have to speak with the Grand General," Darius rumbled. "We need to know who did this."

It sounded like a concession. It sounded like Darius might let Sion remain animate, at least for a time. Satisfied there wasn't anything more she could do at present, Riven changed tack. "The runner who escorted me to the barracks, she knew. She took a magic lock off the door."

Darius' frown deepened. When he spoke again, his voice was low, too low to carry far. "When general Du Couteau vanished, he took his spies with him. Pity. We could have used them. The chances of tracking that runner down, if she was a runner, are slim."

Against her will, Riven felt her attention shift at the mention of the general Du Couteau. He'd been the right hand of Boram Darkwill. Riven herself had met him on only a few memorable occasions – though they had not been memorable on account of the general. It was much the same as how, now, her thoughts were diverted at his mention, but not because of him.

The general had been Katarina's father.

And then he'd disappeared.

Even in distant Bilgewater, there'd been news when the second most powerful man in Noxus vanished overnight. When he did not reappear, as the months passed, it became clear to everyone he was dead.

How had Katarina reacted at his death?

Riven had never known her parents.

What was the grief of losing a father?

Sion, her captain, he had been a friend and, perhaps, he'd been something of a father to her. He'd certainly had a hand in turning her from a green child, gifted with raw strength but having only training to count for experience, to a soldier, a survivor.

In the days following his death, Riven had felt the weight of the world on her. She and her company had waited over a week for the agent dispatched by High Command to retrieve his corpse. The body of such a leader, such a hero, could not be allowed to remain in the clutches of the enemy.

When Katarina arrived in their camp with his great, decaying, body, Riven and her men buried him in a fresh-cut pine coffin.

Fire was traditional, but the constant rain along the northern stretch of the border in the summer made burning the dead impossible.

In the course of a soldier's life, men died. Weak men died first, strong men last, but all men died – good men, bad men, foes, friends. Some men died on the field, their guts slashed open, their innards spilling out while they clawed at themselves, trying to hold themselves together while they cried, mixing hot blood with salty tears. Other men died quietly in the night, lying in hard beds, wounds rotting them from the inside out, even after their legs had been hacked away from them to stop infection's spread. A few men died in the city, old, tired, their strength having left them, their purpose having run out.

When Riven's captain died, she and her comrades had mourned him. And then they had buried him. And when, alone, Riven unearthed his coffin for Katarina to cart back to the city, she'd accepted that he was dead and she'd turned her mind to other things.

Death was the course of life.

That her captain now stood out in the hallway behind her – did that change anything?

Did any man, even one as great as he'd been, deserve a second chance?

Years ago, seeing him chained in the basement of High Command, both rotting and moving, had revived the sharp grief that she'd felt when he'd first died, the grief that felt less like an emotion and more like a steel knife driven through her chest.

But it had faded, quicker than it had the first time.

She'd been so sure that her captain was really, truly, gone.

Riven shook her head slightly, trying to chase away her wandering thoughts. They were thoughts for another time.

Darius leaned forward slightly. He was still frowning. "I have a task for you."

Riven's brow furrowed. "Sir?" The previous day, he'd given her no warning about any impending assignments or duties aside from establishing a company. She'd done the same work for Fury Company, before Ionia. She'd handpicked her men, the best soldiers from the skeleton remains of the second army group. The survivors. She'd set drills, requisitioned necessary supplies, prepared for war. It had been different work from leading men in battle as a captain, but she'd risen to the challenge.

It had also taken her several weeks. And she'd had help.

From what Darius had said before, she'd thought to do the same thing, on a similar schedule.

"You were involved with general Du Couteau's daughter," Darius said. It wasn't a question.

Riven swallowed. She nodded, once. She tried to ignore the sudden empty void she felt in her stomach. What business did Darius have for her that concerned Katarina?

Darius spoke slowly, as if he were choosing every word with care. "She retired from High Command shortly after Swain became Grand General. She said she was leaving to care for her sister. We've hardly heard from her since."

Riven's response came just as slow, just as measured. "Care for her sister?" From Darius' tone, she found herself dreading his answer.

Riven hadn't known Katarina's sister well. The time they'd first met, Cassiopeia's advances had made Riven uncomfortable and that was what she remembered the woman for. After that, in all the time Riven had spent visiting the Du Couteau household, Cassiopeia had remained almost perfectly absent from Riven's presence.

"Cassiopeia Du Couteau…" Darius paused and raised his left hand to gesture, forming the traditional ward against evil. "She was… during negotiations towards the end of the campaign in the north, one of their people turned her into a snake."

Riven could only stare blankly forward.

She'd expected… She couldn't quite recall what she'd expected. Sickness, perhaps. Not…

Without thinking, Riven raised her own hand and mimicked Darius' ward.

Somewhere in the static white noise of Riven's shock, Darius was still talking. "Katarina blamed Swain for her sister's mistake. His campaign, his negotiations. We haven't heard from her in a while, and we haven't tried to contact her."

And now Riven knew what Darius wanted. She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyper aware of her surroundings. Her chair was wood and lacked a cushion. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it certainly wasn't luxurious. The fountain pen on Darius' desk was silver in color but likely steel in make. The windows behind him were open, allowing a cool breeze. The sun was still high enough in the sky that it was day, but it was beginning to dip towards the horizon, casting long shadows in the office.

"Go to Katarina," Darius said. "If she has access to any of her father's spies, we need them. Most of them were loyal to him, not to High Command. They might still be loyal to her."

Stiff, Riven cleared her throat. She opened her mouth slightly, but words were not forthcoming. She cleared her throat again.

"Is there a problem, commander?" Darius rumbled.

Riven fought down her instinct to tell the truth. "No sir."

"She was furious with High Command when you died. She'll be happy you're alive," Darius said. "And she'll be more willing to work with you than with any of the rest of us."

Riven nodded numbly. "Yes sir."

It had been two months since Riven returned to Noxus.

Darius, who'd certainly interacted with Katarina more recently than Riven, said Katarina would be happy to see her.

Should she have sought Katarina out sooner?

Guilt settled in Riven's gut like a great stone, trying to pull her down through her chair and then through the floor.

She'd hardly thought of Katarina in the past years.

Surely Katarina, caught up in the upper echelons of Noxus, dealing with her sister's predicament and her father's death, had thought even less of her.

Surely.

They'd slept together for a short while. It was hardly uncommon for soldiers to take a lover while stationed a few months in the city and then to forget her come time for deployment. What was more, Katarina's skill and boldness had certainly spoke an ease that only came with experience.

Even before Couer, Riven had had little reason to expect whatever she'd had with Katarina could be resumed upon her return.

Which, admittedly, hadn't stopped her from hoping.

And now – Katarina had been angry when Fury Company was annihilated?

Katarina had cared?

"But that's for tomorrow," Darius said, intruding on Riven's tumultuous thoughts. "There's a tailor waiting with your new uniform." He paused, then, "And he'll be furious when he has to size Sion."

Personal contemplations could wait when there was business at hand. Riven glanced back toward the slightly ajar door. So Darius had decided? After his concession that Sion was something akin to what he'd been before, she hadn't seriously doubted he'd let Sion survive at least for a while longer – but the confirmation was welcome.

"I can keep him then?" Riven asked. In a way it was an unnecessary question as he'd had already made himself clear on that point. But it was also a prompt for him to set out any conditions he might have.

"Don't make me regret this," Darius answered. He lifted a hand to wave her on her way. "You're expected in the central supply room on the first basement level. Take Sion with you. Go."

"Yes sir." Riven stood to leave.

"Riven," Darius started.

"Sir?" she answered.

"Close the door behind you," he finished.

Standing at the threshold, her hand on the door handle, Riven glanced out into the hall.

Sion stood unnaturally still, in the manner unique to the dead. His gaze was pointed at the wall and he appeared not to notice Riven's reemergence from the office. She couldn't be sure, but the red furnace in his chest seemed to have dimmed from what she recalled only a short time before. Perhaps it was a trick of the light though. The cavernous barracks had been dim and everything looks brighter in the dark.

Draven was a good distance from Sion, well out of reach. He was scowling and, unlike Sion, he was watching Riven intently.

Riven pulled the door firmly shut.

Darius' brother or not, Draven had no business challenging her.

Draven's scowl twisted into a forced smile. He shrugged, making the motion exaggerated enough it was impossible to miss, then turned and walked away.

Riven frowned at Draven's retreating back.

What was it like to have a brother?

Was Darius better off for it?

She'd wondered much the same things years ago when she first met the two men. She still didn't have an answer.

Riven turned her attention to Sion.

He was still staring at the empty wall.

"Captain," Riven said sharply. It was a strange thing, speaking to him as a superior instead of as his lieutenant. She doubted she'd ever become entirely accustomed to it.

At her address, Sion's head moved so that he could stare at her instead of the wall.

A shiver ran down Riven's spine. Sion wasn't blinking. Did he still have eyelids?

For a moment, she doubted. The Sion that had driven home to her that he was who he'd been – that Sion had been animate. This Sion was almost as lifeless as… as the corpse he was.

Riven cleared her throat. She'd made her decision. Darius had made his decision. There was no room for doubt. "Come with me."

Wordless, Sion obeyed.

Returning back to the basement caverns of High Command, they attracted no less attention than on the way up to Darius' office. Riven did her best to ignore it.

The supply center Darius mentioned was easy to find. She'd been there many times before, years ago when she was working through the details of outfitting a newly made company.

The open doors to the room were, thankfully, large enough for Sion to pass through them. They'd been made that way to accommodate deliveries of nearly any size. Built partly from a vast naturally occurring cavern, the depot stretched seemingly as far as the eye could see, perfectly ordered shelves row after row vanishing into distant murk. Slim clerks manned the front of the room, taking orders and then scurrying off into the labyrinth of storage. Once, when kings instead of generals ruled Noxus, the seat of the city had been a fortress as well as a palace. The supply room, the barracks of the Crimson Elite, the cistern that supplied water to the entirety of High Command – these were all vestiges of that era.

Now, an age after its use a stockpile fit to withstand a siege, the supply room served to cater to the whims of the generals who occupied the complex and also to store anything that couldn't be used by the army at large. Over the years, surplus from over-zealous orders had accumulated here, turning what could have been a small, functional, operation into a sprawling maze of forgotten equipment and all sorts of useless things.

The tailor, a man too slight to be of any use in battle, was one of the grey-clad clerks permanently assigned to the room. Contrary to Darius' prediction, the small man was pleased to the point of enthusiasm when confronted with Sion. Riven watched with some trepidation as Sion stood obediently still while the tailor climbed over him with a measuring tape. Throughout the process though, Sion made no move to violence.

In the low light of the supply room, Riven was certain that the light of Sion's chest was indeed dimmer than it had been when they'd fought and the moments immediately following. Perhaps it was caused by his inaction – or was it the other way around?

Riven frowned. She disliked puzzles.

When the tailor finished with Sion, it was Riven's turn.

A great many years ago, Sion, with his massive, meaty, fingers, had refashioned a standard Noxian officer's uniform to fit his newly minted lieutenant's figure. At first, Riven had been surprised at his skill with a needle, but it made sense. All soldiers, even ones as hulking and bloodthirsty as her captain, had to stitch up their gear. She'd worn that uniform until it was faded and threadbare and unfit for any sort of ceremony.

When it was finally time to replace it, she'd done the modifications on her new uniform herself.

Having a tailor, a man trained to work cloth, squint at her, poke her, prod her, measure her with a rule and tape – it was a new experience and not a particularly pleasant one.

Riven envied Sion's deathly patience.

When he finished, the tailor took his instruments and packed them away. "Wait," he said. Not giving Riven time to protest, he scurried away into the dark of the depot.

Left with nothing to do, Riven shifted her weight from foot to foot as she case her eyes about the room. The shelves nearest to where she and Sion stood held pens, paper, ink pots, and other things that were commonly used by the sedentary officers of High Command. Somewhat farther away, she could make out the dim silhouettes of unopened boxes. What did they hold? Spare hextech bulbs, perhaps, or maybe tableware for the mess hall.

The supply depots at the base of the mountain, the ones used by working soldiers, held steel, steel, and more steel.

And that was a thought – since returning to Noxus, Riven had used blunt training swords of the standard size in drills. Instead of personal armor, she'd worn the battered and ill-fitting suits designated for relatively safe practice bouts.

Given her recent promotion, it would be a simple thing to take a new set of armor for herself. A sword though, that was something else entirely. Though they held some blades forged for men of Darius' size, the common depots that served the military district didn't hold any true Noxian zweihanders. On more than one occasion throughout her career, Riven's peers had reminded her that it was a miracle she'd ever managed to find such an antique weapon, much less that she managed to wield it.

Given Riven's strength, there were very few things she couldn't wield. Since Couer, she'd been using her broken runeblade to better effect than many men managed with conventional weapons. She'd had to make some adjustments to her tactics and movements to use the shorter blade, but in the end she was still deadly. What was more, though it was broken, though the runes had been blurred by Zaunite acid, there was still some power left in it, still enough weight to that power it that it resonated in her blood. Was that power and connection enough to justify not taking up a whole blade?

There were definite advantages to fighting with a larger weapon. The longer reach could be the difference between life and death. But shorter blades had their own advantages as well.

The tailor's return ripped Riven from her thoughts.

In his hands was a uniform, which he gave to her.

It was a similar design to the Noxian infantry officer's uniform, but the colors were different. Instead of solid black, this uniform was a deep red. The trims that, for a general, would have been slim red piping against black, were wide stripes of black on red. Instead of silvery steel buttons, this uniform had bright brass.

Riven was not one to be impressed by clothes, but the tailor was a different story entirely.

"Go try it on," he urged. "I'll have a new set made by the end of the week. For him too," he said, pointing to Sion, then continued, "But see how well this one fits. We fixed it this morning for you." A touch of annoyance crept into his voice. "The work order last year didn't mention any women."

Without hesitating, Riven pulled off her bloody shirt and her boots and pants quickly followed.

The tailor let out a startled squeak.

Riven looked down at herself. Was there something wrong? There was blood on her chest, some of it staining the wraps she used to keep her breasts bound, but she wasn't injured. The scars that covered her torso were old. There was the place a Demacian halberd had almost gutted her, punching through armor and lodging in her side, a bare inch from her vitals. There was the dark mark left by a pirate's cutlass dipped in filth – Bilgewater scum didn't fight fair and, though the wound had been slight, the infection that followed had very nearly been the end of her. And there was the long raised scar that Darius' axe had left.

A true Noxian faced death head on and defeated it by his strength.

Riven's scars, the ones on her front, at least, were badges of honor.

Riven looked up.

The tailor had turned his back.

Oh.

So in addition to having a useless frame, he had a civilian's temperament as well.

Ignoring him, Riven dressed herself in her new uniform.

It fit surprisingly well. It wasn't quite like her old uniform, but it fit her far better than the standard infantry officer's uniform, which was cut for men far larger than her.

Riven cleared her throat to catch the tailor's attention. The small man turned back around.

Embarrassment forgotten in an instant, the tailor wasted no time in returning to poking and prodding her, checking the fit of the uniform. When he finally relented, he backed away, making a satisfied clucking noise. "Good," he said. "Come back in a week."

The tailor was turning to head back to doing whatever it was supply clerks did in the recesses of their domain when no officers demanded their attention when Riven stepped forward. "Wait," she said.

Small man that he was, the tailor startled at her order.

"Zweihanders," Riven said. "Do you have any?"

The look the tailor gave her was an exaggerated cross between confusion and disbelief. He hesitated before giving his answer. "I think so."

Suspecting she'd get nowhere without being more explicit, Riven prompted, "I want one."

The tailor frowned, then, "This way." Not waiting to see if Riven would follow, he scurried off into the dark between shelves – the shelves that were too closely placed for Sion's bulk.

Riven paused for a brief moment, thinking. Should she leave Sion? She glanced at him quickly. He seemed docile enough.

The tailor was rapidly moving away.

Mind made up, Riven set off at a jog to catch up with him.

Together, they moved along very poorly lit paths. They passed shelves filled with every sort of useless thing imaginable. The years had turned a once functional supply room into a vast stock of clutter.

Eventually, the tailor stopped before a large weapons rack holding what had to be every make of colossal sword in Valoran.

Riven's eyes lingered on the stock of Demacian greatswords at one end of the rack. Last deployed east instead of west, she hadn't seen one since her final campaign on the Demacian border.

No – that wasn't quite right.

Katarina had owned one. She'd asked Riven to teach her to use it in exchange for teaching Riven to read and write.

Neither nature nor training had gifted Katarina with the brute strength required to properly wield a greatsword and the endeavor had been, in a word, doomed.

Nevertheless, Riven had quite enjoyed trying to pass on her art. It had been rewarding, validating, even, to have some skill to barter for what couldn't be bought with strength alone. And, well, it certainly hadn't hurt that Katarina had been extremely attractive.

Riven shook her head to clear it.

She had no interest in Demacian greatswords. Their place on the battlefield was as anti-cavalry weapons. A few stubborn soldiers tried to use them elsewhere, but, lacking the axe-head portion of the Noxian zweihander, they were simply not as useful when it came to crushing shields, breastplates, bones.

Riven turned her gaze to the massive zweihanders on the other side of the weapons rack.

Each one was made to the same standard as Riven's first zweihander had been. It was hardly surprising. She'd inherited her sword from a fallen comrade, one whose father had served in the last company to carry the massive swords. While many Noxian companies had little tolerance for deviation from military standards, Sion had run his command rather differently. He'd allowed his men to use whatever weapon they chose, so long as they had the strength to use it. The result had been a somewhat poorly organized group that was considered the most deadly company of the Second Army.

Where would Riven be were it not for her captain?

Riven raised a hand to grasp the hilt of one of the zweihanders, then paused, fingers hovering an inch from the leather-wrapped grip.

Her captain's axe had been too heavy for her to manage.

She wasn't as strong as she'd once been.

Did she still have the strength to wield a full zweihander?

Anger flared in her. Self-doubt was a toxin she had no use for. Her hand closed around the hilt of the sword and she took it down from its place on the rack.

Though it was not light, it was not as heavy as she'd feared.

It was lighter than her captain's axe. It was lighter than her runesword had been. It was lighter than the blade Katarina had gifted her for midwinter.

The steel was of the same quality as her first blade – the blade that had broken beneath Darius' axe when she'd most needed it to hold.

Would this blade break as her last two blades had?

Inevitably, it would. All blades break, someday. She'd once thought that her runesword would be an exception, but Couer proved her wrong. What did it matter that this blade too might someday fail?

Holding her new blade aloft with a single hand, Riven made a tight, controlled, practice swing in the small space available between shelves.

It was a good blade, balanced well enough. In the dim light of the storage room, thick globs of grease were visible on the steel, warding off rust.

She would take this blade, then. And she would keep her broken sword as well. Both would have their purpose.

Riven turned towards the tailor who'd led her deep into the depths of the labyrinth of shelves.

He was openly gaping.

Riven smiled.


	24. Unearthed: Chapter 5

(long) A/N: Hi. so. uh. yeah. hi.

Recap. I've told some of your privately that this fic was abandoned (on account of having lost my way and written myself into a corner and not liking what I'd written). But. I had the first iteration of this chapter written when I posted the last one, back in September. I didn't like it then. I tried to fix it up, spent a *lot* of time editing it, still didn't like it. I gave up and posted what I had on my Tumblr back in December, along with a note saying I wasn't working on this fic anymore.

And then it sat in the back of my head for half a year, and I felt pretty bad about it but I had other stuff going on. I decided to sit down and try to push through a few days ago. I spent all my free time, staying up way later than I should, probably 11 hours writing and editing over the course of three days, not counting brainstorming during lunch breaks and such (ended up completely rewriting a massive chunk of it). And now I'm posting it because it actually just literally cannot keep sitting on my harddrive. Honestly, I generally regret even starting to write Unearthed because I think the story should have ended with the last chapter of Burials, so having this chapter sitting around has been hanging over me something awful. And I think once Riven and Kat meet up, I might actually be happy with what I wrote - which is something that never happens when you're a fic writer.

I want to thank everyone who helped me with this chapter. I think that by "everyone" I actually do mean every single one of my normal beta readers, and then a couple people, but this has been a process of almost a year now for this chapter, so I might leave some people out here - thank you to Waputi and Deixis and CrimsonNoble and especially to Nox Luminos and LogosMinusPity for help in sorting things out for this last push to get this chapter done.

And thank you to everyone who has made it this far into this fic. I know I dropped the ball a little with the past couple chapters. And I know I ran away for the better part of a year. Sorry. I hope this chapter is better than the last few, for you. I really can't express enough how much it means to me that you read this (and that those of you who leave reviews do so). Fanfic authors put literally hundreds of hours into writing this stuff, and our payment is actually just the satisfaction of knowing people read and the good feelings that come with not entirely negative feedback. So thank you so much for sticking with me. Time for some reunion.

* * *

Unearthed Ch 5

* * *

Dawn was a strange thing underground.

When Riven woke, she couldn't tell what time of day it was. In a normal barracks, the officers would rise with the sun and then rouse their men. In Riven's barracks, there was no sun and Sion didn't slumber.

Rest, it seemed, was for the living.

The previous night, she'd left him standing still in the center of the cavern. No order she gave had convinced him to lay down and sleep and she'd quickly given up. She was no one's caretaker. In any case, his bulk was too great to fit into one of the rooms allotted as individual quarters. A part of Riven slept easier knowing that nothing short of smashing through the cave walls would allow Sion to reach her while her guard was down.

Though she was becoming more comfortable with the thing that was her captain, men who felt themselves entirely safe lived short lives.

The room Riven had chosen for herself lacked a mirror, or, indeed, any amenities at all aside from a stone slab to lay a bedroll out on. It did not escape her attention that the traditional quarters of the Crimson Elite had not been designed with comfort in mind. Deep in the heart of the mountain, they were isolated from both sunlight and the city, from the rest of High Command, even. Years ago, so long before Riven's time, who were the Crimson Elite? What kind of citadel guard would keep themselves so far away from the citadel they were guarding? The way the main door opened outwards instead of inwards created the feel of a prison.

Though – most of the underground sectors of High Command had always struck Riven as prison-like.

The holds of ships in Bilgewater, dark and cramped and humid as they'd been, had always had the promise of good sea air only one or two decks above. And ships were made of wood. However imprudent it would be to destroy the walls of a ship, Riven had never felt that her confines were stronger than her.

Maybe if Riven had ever lived closer to the mountain than the military district she'd feel differently. High Command was far from the only Noxian building to extend deep into the stone below. Much of old Noxus, she'd heard, was within the mountain. Some men said that, once, half the city had been underground. Safer that way. But then the kings fell and the generals were strong, Noxus expanded without fear of invasion and the caves became just another slum.

If Riven had been born Noxian, perhaps she'd have grown up beneath the city instead of on its farthest edges.

Sitting on the edge of her stone bed, Riven shook her head to clear it of sleep and of fruitless thoughts. She had little patience for wondering what could have been.

Getting up, Riven dressed herself quickly. She'd worn a nearly identical uniform for years. She knew where every button was by heart, even though the uniform was smaller than the last one she'd worn. She was smaller. She'd lost weight in Ionia and Bilgewater and basic army rations hadn't been enough to build back the muscle she'd had years ago.

Riven's stomach rumbled.

Briefly, between the time of her promotion and the beginning of the Ionian campaign, she'd had the rank to eat at the officer's mess in High Command. There'd been men serving food there, enough food that she was never hungry and had boasted a thin layer of fat to show it. Times had been good.

She'd looked good.

In the dark, Riven frowned. As she gathered her unruly hair and tied it back, she would have appreciated a mirror. Though most days Riven was disinclined to put any more care than was minimally necessary into her appearance, she recognized that some situations called for it.

Seeing Katarina had always been a situation that called for it.

The Noxian aristocracy inhabited a world apart from Riven's. The first time she traveled up the mountain to the Du Couteau manor, she'd been glad for her uniform. A uniform was the most proper thing any Noxian could aspire to and it had felt like armor in the vast halls of what had been, and still was, the largest home she'd ever set foot in. In Riven's life, she'd only seen more opulence than the Du Couteau manor in High Command itself, and, even then, only in the upper halls.

Riven refused to be cowed by mere wealth and displays of gold, no matter how awesome.

But.

The Du Couteau fortune was hereditary. It was the product of generation after generation of strength. Marcus Du Couteau had been a famed general before Boram Darkwill chose him to be Hand of Noxus. Katarina was a deadly blademaster in her own right. Her skill easily exceeded that of many men in High Command who tried to lay claim to strength. Her family's wealth was not their power, merely an indication of it.

To strive for individual advancement was one thing, but to secure a legacy was something else entirely.

Walking the halls of the Du Couteau manor demanded that Riven put care into her appearance. It was a mark of discipline and discipline in and of itself was a form of strength. For Katarina's family –for Katarina – Riven felt the need to draw herself up to her fullest, to do everything she could to make her strength tangible.

Riven's new uniform fit well, but for the task ahead, she wished it fit better. She wished – she wished a lot of things.

Out in the great hall of the barracks, Sion stood still where Riven left him the night before. As she opened the door to her small room, he made no indication of noticing her entrance. The light in his chest was almost dark – but it was bright enough to illuminate the four men standing near his feet.

In an instant, Riven's hand was on the hilt of her broken sword, sheathed at her side.

Mentally, she cursed herself. The new zweihander she'd acquired the day before was propped up against the wall in the chamber behind her. Less than convenient in a city, she'd thought to leave it there for the day. But against four men, she'd have preferred the zweihander's reach to her runeblade's speed.

Alarmed by her motion, the man closest to her raised his hands, showing they were empty. "Sir," he said.

Riven loosened her grip on her blade, though she did not let go entirely.

As a unit, the four men came to attention and saluted. Now that Riven had a moment to examine them, each one wore the unadorned black uniform of a junior officer, the equivalent of a rank-and-file soldier in the halls of High Command. None of them looked particularly worn or scarred and all of them seemed young. To have been assigned to High Command, then, they must be unusually skilled or they were important sons. Riven was inclined to think the latter. Noxus had changed, but it hadn't changed enough. Thinking that they were likely not a threat, despite the swords that hung at their sides, she lowered her hand from her weapon.

"Sir, Darius, Hand of Noxus, has ordered us to watch the premise while you are away today, sir," the man who'd spoken first said. He was either the most senior of them or the least cowardly. "We are to prevent any intruders and to contain…" the young man faltered. He glanced up at Sion. "Contain… him… if he attempts to leave before the specialist arrives."

Could these four boys contain Sion if he decided to leave? No. But, for now, Sion was passive and had remained that way all through the night. "Specialist?" Riven asked.

"The Grand General has ordered a mage examine the situation," the young man replied.

The corners of Riven's mouth tugged downwards into a frown. A specialist? A necromancer. She wanted the likes of a necromancer nowhere near herself or her captain – but – if his light was fading, if he was fading…

And the Grand General had ordered it.

Riven nodded slightly, giving her assent. Really, it was the only thing she could do.

It was good, at least, that there would be eyes watching Sion while she was gone, even if those eyes belonged to men who probably could not restrain him. In fairness though, she herself lacked the physical strength to bring him down. Perhaps an examination by this 'specialist' would yield needed answers.

"You will remain until I return," Riven said, speaking in that tone somewhere between a question and an order that could only be interpreted as the latter.

"Yes sir," came the reply.

Riven nodded again, then turned to leave.

If all went well, she'd return to four young men, Sion, and someone who understood the situation better than she did. And if all did not go well – it was for every man to live or to die by his own strength.

Riven's steps took her through the halls of High Command. She drew far less attention than she had the day before. Yesterday, Sion had accompanied her. Today, she was alone.

When she stopped in the officer's mess briefly for a chunk of ham, hardly anyone looked at her.

The first time she entered High Command, she'd followed Katarina.

She'd heard that her captain was living once more and resided within the walls of the compound, but she'd lacked standing to enter by her own right.

So Katarina had taken her. A solstice gift, she'd called it. What a gift it had been. So much of Riven's life, it seemed, she owed to that gift. Waiting for Katarina outside her father's office, Riven had encountered Darius for the first time in years and from his recommendation she'd been given her runeblade and command of Fury Company, charged with proving Noxian might in the face of Zaunite tactics in Ionia.

And, on that day, Riven had seen her captain as well.

He'd been a corpse. Nothing more.

Riven had hoped – she'd hoped so hard, she'd hoped for, for what he was now, perhaps.

A vain hope. A naïve hope.

At the end of that day she'd gone out to one of the overlooks, a bit farther than halfway down the mountain. She'd wanted to be alone to mourn.

Katarina, after dismissing Riven, after spending hours lying about what was bothering her, had followed.

For that, more than anything, Riven had counted Katarina as a friend.

And, for that, Riven should have suspected Katarina would have cared when Fury Company fell at Couer.

As Riven made the short walk from High Command to the Du Couteau residence, her stomach turned itself in knots. She'd been stupid. She should have made the trek up the mountain two months ago. She'd been busy, yes, but that was an excuse. She had no patience for excuses in others, and she had even less patience for excuses in herself.

She'd told herself Katarina forgot her because they were only lovers.

But they'd been friends.

Riven's fist felt like lead as she lifted the great brass knocker on the door of the Du Couteau manor. The building towered above the street, several stories of stone carved up into an elaborate façade. Flights of thick glass windows, a luxury even lower on the mountain where the weather was not as severe, stared down on passerby. Even amongst the other houses of the old Noxian nobility, Riven had always thought the Du Couteau manor loomed somehow more majestic than its peers.

Riven had had a dream, once, before the Ionian campaign slipped from war into a lower circle of hell. She'd thought she could return from Ionia, triumphant. The Ionians were weak, they'd said. Noxus would come, would win with force. A simple campaign. She'd thought to return home, victorious. And she'd have her place in High Command, and Katarina would have her place as well, and the time they'd spent together the winter before Ionia could happen again and maybe stretch on longer.

A good dream.

A dream she'd forgotten in favor of survival.

But now she was home, she had her place in High Command, and Katarina could have one too, if she chose.

Riven shifted nervously. No one had answered the door – not Katarina, not her sister, not any of their servants.

This was the first time Riven had come to the door of the manor and no one opened it for her.

Was Katarina away? Darius had said she was caring for her sister. Surely such a task wouldn't take her far from the city. And even if Katarina did not answer her own door – why would she? – a servant should have come.

Riven looked up. Above the door, carved into the stone lintel, were the crossed knives of the Du Couteau. This was the correct house.

Hesitant, she grasped the door knocker again. As she was raising her hand to strike however, the door opened.

It was not Katarina who opened it.

The man who'd opened the door seemed familiar to Riven, though she couldn't recall if they'd ever met. He stood a few steps back from the door, into the shadows of the house. A hood hid part of his face.

It was clear from his dress that he was not a servant. His clothes were too good for a servant. They fit him well and their color was something Riven wasn't sure she had a name for. Maybe it was purple, maybe it was blue. In any case, what he wore was expensive and it wasn't Du Couteau livery. The smell of smoke and alcohol clung to him, but it was far too early in the day for such indulgences. Perhaps he'd been out all night.

Riven cleared her throat. "I'm here to-

The man cut her off. "She won't want to see you." He took another step back from the door. "Come in."

Anxiety made Riven swallow. She obligingly stepped across the threshold of the manor, into the dark. A few of the lamps in the hall were lit, but only a few along one wall, like they'd been lit for the sole purpose of the man answering the door. Coming from the bright outdoors, she could see almost nothing inside.

Almost as soon as she'd crossed into the house, the man was shutting the door behind her, and bolting it. "She's in the dining room. Do you remember the way?"

Riven shook her head. She'd never been to the dining room. She knew the way to the training room and she knew the way to Katarina's rooms, and she knew little else of the house.

The man tilted his head to indicate one of the corridors branching off from the main hall. "At the end," he said.

Riven murmured her thanks. As she set out towards the corridor, she was already forgetting about the man, save for the first thing he'd said to her.

She won't want to see you.

The rich carpet that covered the floor devoured the sound of Riven's footsteps. Portraits, presumably of Katarina's dead ancestors, stared down at her. Riven hardly noticed them.

She won't want to see you.

It echoed over and over in Riven's head, the only sound in the silence of the hallway.

She won't want to see you.

Short and to the point, it left little room for interpretation. Still, she wanted to wonder at what it meant. She preferred to think it cryptic instead of -

She won't want to see you.

But she'd been let into the house. She'd been given directions. Katarina was the head of the family, lord of the house.

So maybe -

The door to the dining room was open.

Katarina stood at the far end of the great table that crossed the hall. She was leaning over the table, hands bracing against the edge of the table, staring at some collection of papers. Morning light filtered through the tall windows of the room and settled over her in a soft halo.

Katarina didn't look up.

Riven came to a halt at the edge of the carpeted hall. If she went any farther, her step would sound on the bare stone floor.

Katarina looked – she looked different, the same, just as expected, not at all what Riven had thought –

In the years of Riven's absence, Katarina's wardrobe had changed little. Save for on formal occasions, Riven had only ever seen Katarina wear black leathers, a distinctly middle-class fashion for a woman born of the silk-clad aristocracy who also spent enough time in the field that leather could be more hindrance than protection. Today, she could have been wearing the same clothes she'd worn when Riven had last seen her – there was hardly any difference.

Was this comforting? That Katarina expressed herself in the same lines she'd used years prior?

Even from the far side of the hall, Riven could read the tension in Katarina's body. Her shoulders were drawn back slightly and she was hardly moving. Long red hair hung down to partially obscure her features, but Riven suspected she was scowling.

Familiar. So familiar.

Riven summoned her courage, the courage that served her so well on so many battlefields, and took a single, deliberate, step forward.

Katarina looked up.

Riven's breath caught in her throat.

Katarina gaped. "Riven?"

Riven wet her lips. "Katarina." She hesitated, then added, "My lady." It seemed right. It seemed respectful.

Katarina's jaw snapped shut and all the tension in her coiled tighter as she stood up straight. She reached for a knife sheathed on her belt. She gripped the hilt but she didn't draw.

It was an instinctive motion. Katarina always went for her knives when she felt strongly, the way some men reached for drink and others for women.

She was fury.

And she was beautiful.

In the moment, Riven couldn't remember why she'd come. And – and there was too much space. Riven could see Katarina's face, could see her green eyes, but she was too far away.

She needed to be closer.

Riven began to walk forward.

Katarina didn't move except to grip her blade tighter, her knuckles turning slightly as her force shifted.

The scar that bisected her eyebrow was a sharp, slightly discolored, line. Riven remembered running her fingers across that mark, feeling how it had healed raised and smooth – a clean cut, though a deep one. A mark of her strength. A mark of pride. Would it still feel the same? Had Katarina's scars aged as Riven's had? She wanted to know. She wanted to reach out and touch and hold and know.

She wanted – where had this wanting, stronger than anything she'd felt in her exile, come from?

Riven came to a stop a few feet away and then didn't move. What should she say? She'd thought so much of how she herself felt, but she'd barely considered Katarina's reaction. She should have. She hadn't anticipated, didn't know what to do, hardly-

A flash of light on steel was all the warning Riven had before she felt the edge of a knife on her throat just beneath her chin. She couldn't look down to see, but sharp and cold feeling of it made her think she'd been cut.

Slowly, Riven raised her empty hands. She wouldn't draw her blade. She wouldn't challenge Katarina's right to her anger.

Riven swallowed, briefly pushing the knife ever so slightly deeper into her own throat. When she spoke, her voice was soft and low. "Kat."

Without lowering her blade, Katarina took a step forward. Lips slightly parted, caught in a snarl, her teeth were clenched. Her green eyes burned.

Watching closely, Riven saw the shifting of muscle and had just enough warning to take a step back. She could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Every beat seemed faster than the one before. She knew Katarina. She knew Katarina wouldn't hurt her. She knew.

They were friends.

Katarina's response came broken, choked with rage. "You have no right to call me that." Every word was enunciated, slow, each one sharp and distinct.

Katarina took another step forward.

Riven took another step back and shifted a hand to take Katarina's wrist. She moved so that Katarina could see what she was doing. There was a knife between them. No room for sudden movements. Katarina didn't pull back.

Riven neither pressed her fingers into Katrina's skin nor did she push her away. She didn't want Katarina away from her, just – just under control.

Words. Riven was bad at words. Actions were easier, but there they both stood, frozen in place until Katarina made her move. What should Riven say? "I wanted to see you."

"If you'd wanted to see me, you'd have come two months ago," Katarina replied. Her eyes narrowed and her words came out as harsh as any Riven had ever heard from her. "You'd have come two years ago."

In Riven's grip, Katarina's whole arm jerked, straining forward, gaining ground before Riven could react. The knife cut deeper, still only a flesh wound, but a messy one now. The metallic smell of blood filled the air. Riven pushed, hard, enough to shove Katarina back and off balance. While Katarina stumbled, Riven let go and backed away. Now her hand moved for her sword.

A precaution.

"You let me think you were dead," Katarina hissed. Her knife remained drawn but she didn't advance. She continued, voice rising in pitch, "Two years."

"I'm here to see you now," Riven repeated. To her own ears, her tone was guarded, measured. All wrong. Not what she wanted to say. Not how she wanted to say it. She tried again. "I'm here for-

"You're a dog of High Command. You're here because Darius ordered you here," Katarina answered, volume continuing to rise.

"No," Riven said. A lie, maybe. Maybe a truth. Darius had ordered her, but she'd wanted to see Katarina. She knew this. She knew what she wanted.

And there Katarina stood before her.

Why had she wanted to see Katarina?

Why had she ever wanted to see Katarina?

Because -

Katarina moved fast and with intent. Riven only barely drew her sword in time to block the strike, aimed for her gut. Steel on stone rang out, a screeching noise that sent shivers down Riven's spine.

If it had hit, it could have been fatal, and -

Katarina had a knife in each hand now and she was moving at full speed, holding nothing back.

Riven answered, had to answer, with her own blade.

She-

Hadn't expected this.

Should have expected this.

Didn't want this.

Did want this?

Actions were easier than words.

The advantage Riven's short weapon conferred was the advantage of speed but, even so, Riven wasn't as fast as her opponent.

The only reason she wasn't dead beneath Katarina's furious onslaught was Katarina's wildness.

Calm, Katarina's style was controlled and deadly. Beautiful. From the unnecessary energy thrown into chaotic attacks, it was clear Katarina was anything but calm. Katarina's skill with her blades had doubled, tripled maybe, become even more fearsome over the years, but she suffered the same flaw that crippled her years before.

It was so familiar. Unchanged.

Riven let herself be pushed back. Some blows she parried. Most blows she dodged. Every moment she let her sword stay engaged with one of Katarina's knives was a moment she risked Katarina's second blade. With two weapons, Katarina was the more versatile fighter.

Riven grit her teeth as she retreated. Even pressed hard, her breath came fast but steady, in through her nose, out through her mouth. Katarina wasn't calm, so Riven had to be calm enough, had to have control enough, for the both of them.

She'd done it so many times before.

But this time was different. There was so much anger, too much anger.

Could she continue to defend herself?

Katarina was wasting too much in her attacks, she would tire long before Riven. There was no way she could sustain her assault much longer. But would she tire before she got a lucky strike? All it took was one. It wasn't an acceptable risk. And, as Riven retreated, she was running out of room. The hall was only so long.

With her short blade though, her options were limited. She needed some other advantage.

She was in a dining room. What was there for her?

Riven took a slightly longer and faster step back, breaking distance. Trusting her peripheral vision, she hooked her foot around the leg of one of the dark wooden chairs at the table, then kicked it forward.

Katarina reacted fast enough to sidestep the projectile, but her momentum was broken.

Riven took another step back. This time, she grabbed a chair with her free hand. Raising it like a shield, chair back over her head, legs pointed forward, she charged.

The tactic caught Katarina off guard.

When they collided, there was a crunch.

Riven wasn't sure if it was wood or Katarina's face.

She kept charging.

For a few steps, Katarina managed to back up enough to not be completely run over, but she couldn't back up as fast as Riven could run forward.

A knife stabbed through the seat of the chair, puncturing cushion, narrowly avoiding Riven's cheek.

Suddenly the chair felt heavier – Riven couldn't see Katarina's feet on the ground anymore – she'd gotten a grip in the chair and was holding herself up now.

One final shove sent the chair, and Katarina, hurtling forward.

Like a cat, Katarina landed on her feet, dropped in a crouch. She let out a grunt as she yanked her knife free of the chair's wood, then kicked the piece of furniture aside. There was bright blood freely running from her nose, enough to drip from her chin down to the floor.

Riven took a few steps back. She wanted more distance. She had no armor. If she tried to press her advantage, given Katarina's mood and style, they might both end up dead.

Unacceptable.

In a flash of steel, one of Katarina's knives came hurtling at her. Katarina had moved so fast Riven hadn't seen the throw. Reflexes, and the added distance she'd just taken, allowed her to dodge to the side. The air hummed at the knife's passing.

Riven reached for another chair and took several more steps back.

Down the hall from her, Katarina was wiping at the crimson mess that covered her mouth and chin with the back of her hand. It did nothing to halt or slow the steady stream of blood. In disgust, Katarina shook her hand, sending red droplets down to scatter on the stone floor. She drew another knife to replace the one she'd thrown.

Riven hefted the chair, holding it before her as a shield. She was already retreating. She had to buy time. Katarina's anger wouldn't, couldn't, burn forever. Soon, soon flames would give way to smoldering cinders. Even now, it seemed, she was calming.

And when Katarina's anger subsided, they could talk. They could try again. Riven could-

Katarina was rushing forward. One step, two steps, her long legs carried her across the room – and when she was nearly upon Riven, she leapt, up onto the table, then up, higher, spinning –

Trying to track her, Riven whirled about, expecting Katarina to land behind her. It took a bare fraction of a second to realize her mistake. Katarina wasn't landing behind her, she was landing on her.

Katarina's feet slammed into Riven's back and Riven hit the floor. Hard. She managed to let go of the chair and catch some of the fall with her free forearm. She saved her head, but the force of the impact on the stone floor, the pain lancing through her wrist, her arm, her elbow – something was broken. Forcing herself to keep moving, she immediately pushed up and back to rise onto her knees and throw Katarina off of her, but Katarina was already gone, far too skilled a fighter to stay to grapple with a stronger, shorter, opponent.

Half-way back up, a boot collided with Riven's ribs, knocking her back down.

Mind foggy with pain, a distant thought told Riven that she wasn't dead and that she easily could have been.

The world spun.

Katarina was speaking. She was saying something.

Wind knocked out of her, Riven struggled to find her breath again. There was blood dripping into one of her eyes. Not hers though. Katarina's blood. It must have splashed there. The world was steadying. Katarina was standing a few paces away. "What?" Riven murmured, saying the word but barely understanding it.

Katarina's voice dripped cold condescension and venom. "You're so weak."

Riven continued forcing the world to stay still around her.

She'd miscalculated.

Katarina had found control, but her anger hadn't lessened. She was as deadly as ever, as hungry as ever for violence, but without rage to hold her back.

"Too weak to keep your men alive. Too weak to come home."

Trying to protect her broken arm, Riven used her other side to push herself up again.

Another kick caught her full in the stomach. Her entire body rose up, then collapsed back to the floor. Bile surged up her throat. She choked. Spittle dripped from her lips.

"And now you're back."

Staying calm wasn't working. Waiting Katarina out wasn't working. Too much anger.

She was stuck on the floor.

Getting kicked.

She had to try something else.

Riven forced herself to look up, to look at Katarina.

She needed something-

Katarina was crouching over her. Sneering. She held her knives still, but her grip was relaxed.

"Pathetic."

Who was Katarina to call her weak?

Who was Katarina to judge her?

Who was Katarina to hurt her?

No one.

Riven half-rolled, half-lunged forward, slamming her forehead into Katarina's knee.

With a yelp of surprised pain, Katarina went tumbling backwards, giving Riven the opening she needed to stagger back up to her feet even as Katarina scuttled away and stood up herself.

Riven didn't need long legs, she was on Katarina in a second, broken sword swinging with abandon. Every movement jostled Riven's broken arm, sending agony screaming through her, but that pain only fueled her assault.

She needed – she needed to make Katarina understand.

Now Katarina was on the defensive. Her speed did little for her when she had to use all her strength to keep Riven from smashing through her parries.

Together, they were a flurry of steel and blood, raging down the great hall in a mess of chaos.

Now it was Riven's time to be fury.

Years.

Years she'd spent in exile, wasting away, losing what was left of herself. Forgotten. And now to come back, half-groveling, ready to endure all Katarina's selfish anger and childish violence because Katarina expected it, demanded it.

No.

Riven brought her blade crashing down over and over again. Katarina had to parry every strike. With every blow though, her guard weakened, giving more way each time. With every blow, Riven came closer and closer to splitting Katarina in two.

"Why can't you hit me, Riven?"

If she had a clearer state of mind, Riven would have heard the sharp panic in Katarina's voice.

"Too weak?"

If she had a clearer state of mind, Riven would have heard the trap.

"You're-

Riven saw the slightest hint of an opening and she lunged for it.

Katarina's foot whipped out, catching Riven at the ankles and tripping her.

Riven fell.

Steel, the tip of a knife, then the entire blade up to the hilt, rammed into her stomach.

Riven tried to catch herself, couldn't, only barely managed to twist to the side and avoid falling onto the knife and shoving it deeper.

All she could see were the legs of chairs at the table.

Shock.

She was going into shock.

Somewhere far away, Katarina was screaming. "Cass! Talon! Cass!"

Katarina.

Riven tried to shove the pain to the back of her mind, tried to make her mouth work. "Kat?"

Katarina's face came into view – blurry, everything going dark. "Riven?"

Katarina was still talking. Saying something. Didn't matter. Not important.

Riven wanted to talk now. Was important. Very important.

Mouth wasn't though. Not working.

Strong. Riven was strong.

World getting darker-

Had to-


End file.
